The Catalyst
by BelstaffJumper
Summary: A new doctor and a case prompt John and Sherlock to realize what they feel for each other. Awkward situations, hopefully some humour, and an honest-to-good case. Johnlock, rated M.
1. Sherlock and his mind palace

Disclaimer: Don't own, otherwise there'd be many more episodes per season and no wait in between...

Note: Bear with me, I'm trying to figure out how to post the chapters... I might give up and publish the whole thing... Please review :)

**1. Sherlock and his mind palace**

He walked into the stainless steel lift and went to the 36th floor. Down the white corridor, he walked up to room number 8 on the right. Ah, he loved this room. The light yellow walls with white trims, the sun always shining pleasantly through diaphanous white curtains. And the elegant glass paneled bookcase on the wall. This year's crop of Level 8 cases, all solved.

He sat on the comfy chair, opened a folder and started filing the case's sub-folders with clues, murder scenes, interrogations... But he couldn't keep his mind focused. That was odd. Usually this room was very soothing and a pleasure to sit in. He could spend hours here. After a few more tries, he gave up and stood up. He left the folder on the side table. He'd have to come back to it later.

No, he refused to go to that _other_ room. There was _nothing _to report. He opted instead for a walk in the gardens. It had been a while since he had visited them. Usually he'd only go there to escape, to calm down, or to think things through a different angle when a case was proving itself difficult. It had different areas with different types of gardens, a maze, a modern veranda, an old-fashioned gazebo and a greenhouse. This time, he settled himself in the modern veranda overlooking a pond. The raised and covered platform had elegant red plain cloth panels that floated lazily in the breeze between every other pair of wood columns. The comfortable patio furniture allowed him to lounge and think of nothing. He reclined and tried to clear his mind.

Then he heard a muffled bang. _Ah, John must be back_, he thought. _No matter. He's so predictable. He has been to a pub for at least a couple of hours, has had a few pints and now he'll go straight to his room and avoid talking to me. He'll just sulk and give me the silent treatment for two or three days. Then he either eventually gets over it or a case comes up and resets his priorities._

_This subject, this argument has come up before. Why is caring so important? Why can't John just let go? John always gets upset with me over the victims and their families' suffering. I've never pretended to care, he should know that by now. He gets disproportionately mad at such things._

_Mycroft was right. John would never admit it, but he also loves the puzzle solving, the hunt, the adventure, the danger. The only difference between us is that he has this romantic idea of chivalry, the need of a hero. If John could only understand... he has so much potential, if only he'd take off those emotional goggles he wears so proudly._

He spent some time there, until he was finally able to go back to the 36th floor and file the last case.


	2. The Fight and the A&E

John doesn't get enough credit sometimes, but unless he is extraordinary in what he does, why else would Sherlock fall in love with him?

**2. The fight and the A&E**

'You could've easily stitched me up at home. We would've been done long ago,' complained Sherlock.

'Not after running all over town on three hours of sleep over two days. Plus, it was a nasty bump you had on the head. You'd better have it x-rayed, just in case,' John replied patiently.

Sherlock huffed, scowled and pouted, making John shake his head and hide his amusement as best he could. _Sometimes he can be such a kid._

John had fallen asleep and woke with a start when Sherlock's name was called. A nurse took them to an exam room. After a few minutes, a doctor came in with some paperwork in hand. 'So Mr. Holmes, you have a knife wound and a possible concussion? I'm Doctor McKenzie. Let's have a look at the wound while we wait for the x-ray machines to free up.'

'I'm only here because _my doctor _refused to treat me!' spat Sherlock, glaring at John.

'Oh, you're also a doctor? Where do you practice, Dr...'

'Watson - John Watson. Please don't take anything he says personally, my friend here is just a bit grumpy. I'm concerned about the concussion, that's why I brought him in. He was a bit dazed when it happened.' Then, remembering her question he told her about his work, slightly embarrassed that it was mere locum work. At that moment he envied her. His training had been focused on emergency and trauma after all, and he missed it.

Dr. Mackenzie just smiled and said she'd be looking into the head injury. While examining the wound, she asked how he had got into this mess. Sherlock merely huffed, so John told her what happened.

...

They had been chasing a murderer that day. With a quick nod of understanding, Sherlock and John had split up to corner him. Seeing himself trapped, the man had decided to take a stand and fight. He had a knife and knew how to use it, having previously killed five people with it. Sherlock had already reached him, while John was still running towards them from the opposite direction. John saw the knife draw an arc in the air and a line of blood appear on Sherlock's shirt, right across the abdomen. His throat went dry and his legs turned to clay as he struggled to speed up. Sherlock had recoiled to get away from the knife, but tripped against the kerb behind him. His opponent saw him off balance and kicked him hard. Sherlock landed heavily between the brick wall and the pavement. John feared his friend had hit his head, but there was no time to think about it now. He crashed against the murderer's side, sending him flying.

At such moments, John was forever thankful for his military training, which had made him an accomplished fighter. A burly man shaped like a boulder, the murderer scrambled to his feet surprisingly quickly for someone his size. John circled him slowly, placing himself between Sherlock and the killer. The man grinned and teased him, waving his knife. John tried to remain calm and alert. _Why is Sherlock still on the ground, _he fretted, _is he unconscious? No, keep your mind on your opponent, Watson. Later. He's right handed. I need him to try to slash me like he just did Sherlock, then I can grab his wrist and he'll have the back of his arm towards me. Not yet. Not yet. NOW!_

Facing his opponent brought to mind his old drill Sergeant's lessons: _'Keep it short, simple, dirty and efficient. Two or three strikes.'_ Without thinking, he let his body react on its own. Before the man lashed out from left to right, John stepped in and, with his right hand, held the armed hand before it could strike. This left his opponent's back of the arm and ribs exposed, the other hand blocked by his own body. '_Elbows and knees are much stronger than fists_' were the Sergeant's words. John's left elbow automatically recoiled and hit the man's face, a strike in itself powerful enough to knock out and disable any attacker. Yet, he continued pushing with the elbow and, using his legs and hip as a lever, made the killer topple down in a circular fluid motion. He followed the fall with a neck pin which, once you had the right technique, required little force to make your opponent pass out. Still blocking the armed hand, he slid his left arm across the man's neck and held tightly to the shirt. A simple twist of the fist made his ulna press against the throat, enough to disable. To kill if he kept it there. But no need today.

…..

Sherlock was dazed, having bumped his head against the wall. But seeing John circling the murderer made him fear for the doctor and he desperately tried to stand up and help, without success. The man was taller and bulkier than John. Through his foggy brain he saw John feint, back up just enough to get out of the knife's range, then at the next attack, step in close to hold his attacker's wrist. A bold and risky move. In less than fifteen seconds, the murderer was unconscious on the ground, tied up.

Next thing he knew, John was crouching at his side, lifting his eyelids. 'Sherlock, are you all right?' John was a bit alarmed at first, as Sherlock stared with unfocused eyes, a manic grin on his face.

'Sherlock! Can you hear me? Are you all right?'

His friend started to giggle. _Definitely not good_, John thought. But, just then, Sherlock spoke calmly. 'Yes, John, I'm fine. I was amused by this ridiculous notion of mine. I was concerned for you, fighting a man much bigger than yourself. All the while, you effortlessly took him down, disabled him before I could say "watch out!" and without a single scratch. My dear Doctor Watson, you never cease to amaze me!'

John heard this unexpected praise with pride, and this made him relax and smile. Sherlock praising him? _He _really _must've hit his head! _'Well, somebody has to watch your back, you sod!' he answered, smiling. 'Stay down, Sherlock. That was a nasty bump. I'll call Lestrade and an ambulance. The cut doesn't seem to be too deep, but we'd better keep pressure to stop the bleeding.'

...

Dr. Mckenzie was impressed with the shorter version of the events John had given her. John took notice of her stitching and thought her work was very neat. He was reminded of a nurse at his surgery who said female doctors were much more careful when stitching because they concerned themselves with the scar they'd leave afterwards. He had thought it was a bit of a sexist comment at the time - after all, he too was very good at it. And, having done it under extreme conditions, he was able to control the needle and the knotting with either hand and at great speed. But now he noticed how much smaller and even hers were. Plus, she placed her first stitch right in the middle, then a second and a third dividing the cut into quarters, to ensure the symmetry and uniformity of their spacing.

'Dr. Mckenzie, your stitching is quite amazing!'

'Oh, you should see them from the back!' she replied, keeping her eyes on her work.

It took him a second, but then he understood and chuckled amused.

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at John's comment. _Really? Is he trying to chat _my_doctor up as she's stitching _me_?_ He was affronted at such levity, but his reactions went unnoticed as he lay on his back.

The x-rays came back showing no fractures. As Sherlock refused to spend the night at the hospital for observation, John resigned himself to keep a watch for the next twenty four hours. He didn't think he could stay awake, but reasoned he could set his alarm to check on Sherlock every couple of hours and try to sleep in between.

...

Sherlock was relieved to go home and relieved that John didn't try to get a date out of _his _emergency room visit. He was cross. He hated hospitals and had only gone because John had refused to take him home. A big waste of time, seeing that he didn't have a fracture on his skull after all and all he got were stitches - something that John could have easily done at home. He felt them tug at every bump on the road and he had a headache. Plus it annoyed him that John could never be around a woman without acting like an animal sniffing a female in heat. But as they rode home, John started asking him questions about the finished case, being, as usual, impressed with Sherlock's keen observations that had led them to the murderer. By the time they arrived at 221B he was feeling better, the exhilaration of a case solved finally coming over him, John's admiration lifting his spirits.

Sherlock didn't think John needed to watch him, he didn't feel any dizziness or nausea, and his speech was normal, not slurred. But despite his tiredness and lack of sleep, John insisted on watching over him. He wanted to move his chair into his flatmate's bedroom, but Sherlock assured him he'd be fine sleeping on the sofa. No need to drag furniture around and upset the sitting room. Somehow disturbing the order of both rooms bothered him. And the idea of John sitting with him in his bedroom made him uncomfortable, for some reason.

John tried to make him eat something (Sherlock managed to consume about two thirds of a can of soup), gave him some painkillers, made some coffee, took a shower to wake himself up, set the alarm on his phone, and got ready for his vigil. Soon enough, he was asleep on the chair.

Sherlock, despite his injuries, was still too excited about having solved the case and was in no mood for sleep. He tried to get moderately clean without a full shower, in order to keep the stitches dry. Then got into his pyjamas and gown and settled on the sofa. He felt a bit of pain now that the anaesthetic shot was wearing off. But he could choose to ignore it; he wanted to file the case in his mind palace anyway. That's when he remembered John's fight. He himself was a very good fighter, but today he hadn't been fast enough. Then he marveled at John's skills. He only wished he hadn't been so groggy at that moment, just so he could have truly appreciated it. _Really, I could be dead by now if it weren't for him. And he shielded me from the murderer._

At moments like these, when the soldier in John surfaced, it was quite a sight to see. His face would transform itself into a stony mask. There was fierceness in his eyes, so focused and in control, almost cold. He projected a power that hinted at how dangerous he could be. Nothing that indicated the existence of an affable doctor in homely jumpers. Those rare moments were a treat, just as thrilling and intriguing to Sherlock as the cases themselves.

He looked over at John sleeping on the chair and smiled. _He has lost weight ever since he moved in._ He guessed irregular eating habits and physically chasing and fighting criminals had a lot to do with it. But a couple of months ago John had started jogging and then, established an exercise routine to do at any chance he had, 'to keep myself in good shape for all the running around we do' and it showed. He had been sincere in saying that John never ceased to amaze him. He was proud of him. He looked at John again, dragged himself up, cringing at the tugging of the stitches. Then he went over to the side table next to his friend's chair, picked up the phone and turned it off. He knew he wouldn't sleep anyway. No need for John to be awake.

He gingerly settled back on the sofa and retreated into his mind. That would also take his mind off his injuries. He went to the paneled room number 5. So much to file today!

On the ground floor, instead of going straight ahead towards the stainless steel lift, he took the passage to the left that opened into a spacious hallway. In that elegant room, there was a large sweeping old-fashioned wood staircase with a carpeted runner, that split into two halfway up, framing a large window with stained glass. He took the steps to the left and went straight to room number 5.

He also liked this room. It had wood panels on the walls, not dark, but in a warm colour. In this room, there were a brown leather winged chair, a chaise, a fireplace, a Persian rug, a comfy cushioned bench under the large window, recessed between the bookcases. There were also guns displayed on the walls, a couple of military uniforms on display cases (camouflage and dress). This room had no curtains, and there was always a shaft of sunlight coming through the window and shinning onto the rug and floors, making the room cozy and warm. The window showed a view to the gardens. He pulled a couple of folders out and sat on the chaise.

This was John's room. Usually he filed all the people in his life (the ones in his personal life, not necessarily related to cases) in one single large room, number 15 on the right wing, the one that looked more like a library, with a separate small desk under each bookcase. But once John's folders started to overflow and spill out its allotted frame, Sherlock had to create another room in the left wing just for his files. That in itself had been a surprise, he stopped, remembering. But there was something about John that was _so_ fascinating. His file kept expanding quite rapidly. He attributed that to the fact that not only they were flatmates, but partners in the cases. It was bound to happen once you spent so much time with one person, he reasoned.

He held a folder labeled Skills and another for Miscellaneous.


	3. Being shot again!

**3. Being shot again!**

About a week later, Sherlock was starting to get dangerously bored, irritable and cranky (quite a pest, really - John had been trying really hard not to punch him for the past couple of days). Sherlock wouldn't even take care of his own wound by changing the dressing, leaving the task to John. He complained, but Sherlock merely replied that John was his doctor, after all. So everyday he had to clean it, put antibiotic gel and re-dress the wound, to ensure it wouldn't get infected. In truth, Sherlock enjoyed being cared for and did this on purpose, knowing that the doctor in John could not leave the dressing unattended.

Then a private case showed up. _Thank God!_, thought John. An art gallery had been broken into and a Matisse had been stolen. No prints. Nothing on the surveillance videos inside the gallery. Nothing on the CCTV footage around the area. No signs of break-in.

...

_How did this happen, John asked himself, a painting gets stolen and I get shot?_

For a second, as he saw the suspect point a gun at him, he had feared for his life. He had pulled out his pistol too, when suddenly there was hot searing pain on the inside part of his right calf. The leg gave out from under him, making him fall.

Sherlock sprung into action, grabbing the shooter's armed hand and changing the gun's direction away from John. In one fluid motion he spun around and, while still holding the hand and grabbing the man's shirt in a vice-like grip, went down in one knee with his back towards the robber. These series of motions made the robber flip in the air, fly over Sherlock and land on his back, winded. Sherlock still held on to the wrist and stretched the man's arm so the elbow was across his bent knee. He jerked it backwards, making the criminal drop the gun with a cry. He swung the back of his fist and the robber's head flipped violently, blood pouring from his nose. Sherlock pulled out a pair of handcuffs and secured the man's hands around the radiator pipe nearby, kicking the gun away. That was so fast and violent that John barely had time to register how it happened.

'John! John! Are you all right? Please tell me you're okay!' he rushed in, madness still in his eyes.

Before John could say the bullet had just grazed his leg, Sherlock had pulled out a flick knife and was cutting John's trousers open at the leg.

'Sherlock! Stop! I'm fine, it was just a graze!' He knew the bullet hadn't hit anything major. It was bleeding profusely, though, so he kept both hands pressed to it. 'No need to rip my trousers off... people will talk!', he said in all seriousness, trying to take his mind away from his pain for the moment. This had become their inside joke, so Sherlock gave the standard reply 'They do little else!' smiling back with relief.

Then John saw Sherlock's face change as he got up and turned away. He walked over to the handcuffed man on the floor, still holding his blade pointed down.

The shooter recoiled in fear. Sherlock squatted and, getting really close to the man's face, said in a quiet voice 'You are lucky that he's fine. If you had killed him you would never leave this room alive.' The burglar winced at the threat.

John was shocked to hear Sherlock's words. Despite all of his self-professed detachment from the human race, he did care about people, after all. Well, cared about him, and maybe it was worth getting shot just to see this side of his friend. It was also a bit disturbing to hear the coldness in his voice and see the anger in his eyes in combination with such unexpected words. It was just as well that Sherlock had not chosen to use his brain for crime.

Just then Lestrade rushed into the room and took in the scene, gun in hand.

'John! Are you all right?'

John nodded, grimacing, 'Mustn't grumble, I suppose. An ambulance would help.' Lestrade already had his phone out when he looked at the man on the floor.

'Sherlock! Are those my handcuffs?'

...

'Oh hello, Dr. Watson, isn't it? Well it's you this time, huh? Bullet wound?' she asked, checking the papers in her hands. 'We need to stop meeting this way!'

'Oh, em... Hi, Dr. McKenzie!' John replied, smiling. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but none of them noticed him. 'Yes, on my leg, but it's not too bad, just a graze.'

'And Mr. Holmes, how are you?'

'Bored!'

John frowned and cringed internally. _She was actually very nice, there was no need to lash out on her. We haven't been waiting that long. I'd better say something to cushion his rudeness-_

'Good, that means that Dr. Watson will recover, then.'

Sherlock didn't have a retort for that. His face flickered. Then he rearranged it back to neutral. John thought the doctor had handled his friend's rudeness quite well. 'Please, call me John. Here, today, I'm the patient.' She gave him a radiant smile and proceeded to remove the field dressing he had received from the paramedics.

'Hmm, not "just a graze" Doc. It did get a bit more than just adipose tissue. You'll need a few internal stitches too. But you know that, don't you?'

'Yes,' he grimaced as she examined the gash. 'But to me, that was just a graze. I've had worse.'

...

_He_ is _going to ask her out this time! His face is so transparent!_ He rolled his eyes, retreated and observed as their conversation evolved. As she proceed with cleaning the wound they talked about her work (_Dull!_), where he worked (_Dull!_), her schedule at the A&E (_Eye roll!_), his at the surgery (_Boring!_) and the 'occasional' crime fighting. _ Occasional? I'm not going to just sit here and listen to this nonsense._

_Case File Tower, 36th floor: White Corridor A. Blue Room 7:_

_ File Case: 2013-231: Robbery, Gallery - Level 7 - Solved._

_ - Winston Gallery, Painting (Matisse) taken, no video surveillance, no prints._

_ - Clues: ash left on corridor outside exhibit room, dried drop of unidentified liquid on floor (Later analysis: solvent, ..._

...

'Mr. Holmes? Are you all right?'

Sherlock had his fingertips pressed together in front of his lips and was staring off into space. He hadn't responded to her question about his own stitches.

'He's fine,' John answered. 'Don't worry, he always does that. It's a memory trick-'

...

_Manor, West Wing - First Floor: Wood Paneled Room 5._

_ File: John H. Watson_

_ Medical Folder:_

_ - Wound: Non life-threatening, 9mm bullet, right calf, inside of leg, 4 internal stitches, 12 exterior ones, angle of scar __(-) 30 degrees, start at 2" below knee, 2 1/2" long._

_ Miscellaneous Folder:_

_ - Profound relief when determining injury was non life-threatening. Curious reaction._

_ - John's smile and joke. His face beamed, somehow, despite the injury and obvious pain. Why?_

...

In the taxi, John couldn't stop smiling. He had never considered himself handsome (especially walking around with Sherlock standing right next to him), but somehow, he had never been alone for long periods of time. Except, of course, during his deployment in Afghanistan and immediately after his return, when he had felt so disconnected with the world.

Somehow, God knows why, dating was always easy for him. Keeping the relationships, on the other hand, had become a problem ever since he moved to Baker Street. Sometimes, in the back of his mind, he feared he'd never find someone that would put up with canceled dates, or worse, with Sherlock interrupting their dates and interfering with their lives. Or even accept his current 'lifestyle'. He hadn't had a date in a while because he had pretty much given up for now, due to the many break-ups and heartache he had experienced ever since moving in with Sherlock. Still, he longed for a long term and meaningful relationship.

Doctor Ella Mckenzie was the first woman in a long time that had made him feel this giddy. Just talking to her was such a pleasant experience. She was brilliant, smart, funny, and, on top of it all, beautiful! Even with her hair up in an ever-so-practical tight bun and wearing the shapeless hospital scrubs, she still managed to look stunning. The freckles on her nose were just adorable, they gave her an innocent look when she smiled. _ Sod any rules, I'll call her tomorrow!_

Sherlock was quiet. He had seen it many times before. They came and went before it became important to remember their names. _ Trust issues? Or merely a voracious sexual appetite? _ But he couldn't remember seeing John smiling so warmly like this, without any apparent and immediate reason. It bothered him, but he couldn't understand why. _Sentiment. Why do people bother with it? And why do women flock to him like this? I guess I'll never understand._

...

John woke up the next day feeling... happy, warm and fuzzy. Then he tried to roll. He stifled a groan. _Oh, yeah, my leg. Bullet wound. Stitches. Agh. _

Then he remembered Ella's smile again. _ I'm calling her today. Just have to wait for her shift to end. Let her sleep. Then, tonight I'll call her. I won't be pushy, I would just love to talk to her again._

He gingerly went downstairs using the crutches given to him in hospital. It hurt a lot when he had tried to walk without them. Downstairs, Sherlock was on the sofa, thinking, staring into space.

'Good morning! Did you get any sleep at all?'

He didn't expect an answer. Sherlock could go on for hours or days without speaking, hearing or seeing anyone. But he heard a quiet 'no', followed by a sigh.

'Do you want any breakfast? I'm starving!'

To his surprise, Sherlock was suddenly at his side, holding his arm and turning him back to the sitting room. 'No John, you have to rest your leg, doctor's orders. You sit down, put your leg up, I'll make breakfast.' After a pause, he noticed John's puzzled look and asked 'What? Problem?'

'No, I'm just... Well, I mean, you never make breakfast. And since when you heard what the doctor said? I thought you were immersed in your mind palace at the time!'

'John, you've been injured. Thankfully, not seriously, but as you said yesterday, now you are the patient. So you should start acting as such. You can't really expect to make breakfast and hold yourself up on crutches at the same time. It's only logical that I should do it. As for my mind palace, when needed, I am perfectly capable of diverting 15% of my attention to the world around me (in this case, necessary because we were, after all, in a hospital tending to your bullet wound) without being bothered by the dull and unnecessary details surrounding the situation.'

'Or... you could just say that you were worried about me and wanted to show you care,' John replied amused.

Sherlock glared. John stifled a laugh and, seeing Sherlock's disgust in being caught _caring_, started laughing out loud.

'John, you're an insufferable idiot!' Sherlock huffed, turning to the kitchen.

'Oh, just admit it! You do care about people...'

His laughing slowly subsided. After a pause, he added 'What you said yesterday to the burglar... That was moving, in a scary way.'

Sherlock came back into the room, frowning. 'Why moving _and_ scary?'

'Well, it showed me you do care. But, at the same time, it also made me bloody glad not to be your enemy. You can be alarmingly intimidating sometimes, did you know that?'

'I meant what I said. I was about to punch him again for injuring you when Lestrade showed up.'

And with that simply stated, he returned to the kitchen.

John felt touched and grateful. To discover that Sherlock did have a heart after all, to be on the receiving end of his care, to have breakfast made for him for a change (eggs, by the sound of it), was new and comforting. It made him happy. So, he added, 'Who are you and what have you done with my flatmate?' As Sherlock scrambled the eggs, he smiled to himself.

The day passed quietly. Sherlock was still thinking about what John had said. 'Oh, just admit it, you do care about people!' and 'it showed me you do care' kept pressing on his mind. He had been alarmed to think John had been seriously injured. There was so much blood, he had feared a severed artery. He retreated into the paneled room to think this through. _ Do I really care? How come?_ He thought again of that dreadful moment, when he saw John fall with the shot still ringing in his ears. He had felt fear. Fear so intense, that at that moment he hadn't thought of his own safety. He felt he'd risk his life without hesitation, just to ensure John was safe. He had never cared for someone else like this before. Surely, he had what one might call affection for Mrs. Hudson. But she had never claimed a room all to herself like this. Why-

John had been sitting on his chair with his leg up, making entries on his blog. Mrs. Hudson had just come by and was fretting over his injury. John put his laptop down and stood up to reassure her when suddenly he went pale and felt dizzy. Then both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock fretted over him. They made him lie down on the sofa and put his feet up, giving him water and more painkillers.

...

John felt foolish, but agreed that he needed to lay down. The painkillers made him sleepy. He woke up about an hour later and saw Sherlock still sitting and staring into space. It looked like he had not moved in all this time. For all he knew, he might have just blinked, except for the fact that the mantle clock showed time had indeed passed. He turned on the telly but dozed off again. Next time he opened his eyes it was early evening and Sherlock had ordered some takeaway, another surprise. Sherlock even managed to eat almost two meals in a row. Possibly an all time record!

After dinner, Sherlock was back in his chair, clearly retreating into his mind palace. John got up, picked up his phone and carefully, slowly, went upstairs.


	4. The violin sang

Note: There are 19 chapters ready to go, I apologize for going slow. I'm having a lot of trouble with this site... I don't own the characters, in case I need to repeat the disclaimer.

**4. The violin sang**

Sherlock's eyes snapped to attention and followed the wobbling figure on crutches out of the room. He listened to the slow progress upstairs, making sure he'd reach the bedroom safely. As soon as he heard the bed creaking above, he silently moved to halfway up the stairs. _Yes, John is calling her_.

For the next excruciatingly dull hour he listened in. John asked her many questions, about her work, her training, her interests. He frequently laughed, sounded surprised, praised her. He told her about being in the Army, being deployed to Afghanistan, being seriously injured and returning, his work at the surgery, his work with Sherlock, the blog. They talked about his current injury, exchanged medical opinions, laughed some more. Eventually, reluctantly, John said goodbye.

Sherlock moved quickly and silently back to the sitting room and laid on the sofa. _He did not ask her out. Interesting._ Sometimes he was puzzled by his flatmate. _Why didn't he?_ He could not remember John ever calling his past girlfriends to just... talk like this, much less for an entire hour. Calling was merely a tool to arrange dates and times, to cancel dates, to apologize for having canceled the dates, to try to explain himself about the canceled dates, and to try to stop them from breaking up with him.

This time was a bit different.

In the meantime, to his surprise, John had (very slowly and noisily) made it back into the sitting room, with a big smile on his face. Without preamble, he blurted 'Ella is amazing! She's brilliant, smart, funny, beautiful and full of surprises! Would you have imagined that she's a black belt in karate?' Sherlock winced inside upon hearing his friend describing someone else as brilliant and smart. John continued, excitedly 'And just like you, she has an eidetic memory and can recall all her previous patients' names! Unbelievable! That's how she remembered our names the second time.'

Sherlock asked, putting on his most innocent face, 'So, did you ask her out?'

John deflated slightly. 'No, doctor's orders were for me to rest and recover. I'm not sure she wants to go out with me. Why should she? She could have anyone she wants. I'm probably just one more admirer.'

As he spoke, Sherlock stood up and gestured John back to the sofa.

'Nonsense,' Sherlock waved. 'You never have trouble getting the women you want and she's clearly interested in you.'

'Really? You think so?'

'Oh please, John (eye roll). She just spent an hour talking to you on the phone and her body language at the hospital spoke volumes. Did you not see?'

'I _had _ thought we hit it off well, but on the phone she said I should stay put for the next few days. This could be just a polite way to keep me from asking her out. And plus, it's hard to believe she'd even look at me.' _While you're standing next to me looking like a model, _he added to himself.

'John, somehow you have this... gift with women. They always fall for you and I don't understand how you do it.' He grimaced and continued, 'All this... (his lips tugged down in disgust) romance is boring, dull, uninteresting.'

'You are being redundantly redundant.'

'Exactly! Sentiment, romance, emotions. They only cloud judgment, complicate things and end up in anguish.'

'Ah Sherlock! You wouldn't think so if you had met someone like Ella'. _In fact, I think you two would probably be a great match. I'm so lucky you're not interested_!

Yet, it hit him a couple of hours later, when he was finally back in his bedroom, that Sherlock had praised him again. _A gift with women?_ 'You never have trouble getting the women you want', he had said. 'They always fall for you'. Not quite completely true, but hadn't he just been thinking about how he was never alone for long periods of time? Then again, that applied to getting the first dates only. He had had many girlfriends in the past, not because he was looking for quantity. He had always been looking for a meaningful relationship, but things eventually fizzled out after a while. There had been only two serious long term relationships in his life. Both before being deployed, before meeting Sherlock.

He also took notice that Sherlock was still being uncharacteristically kind, giving up the sofa for John's comfort. _Almost too tempting to say I should get injured more often. I could get used to this._

...

By the end of the following day, John felt better and was able to walk without the crutches. Mrs. Hudson was really impressed at how fast he had recovered. She attributed it to him being in such good shape. John told her all about Ella, and Mrs. Hudson cooed and gushed at all the right moments. It was much more fun recounting these things to someone who didn't proclaim them 'boring, dull, uninteresting'.

He tried really hard to keep from calling her again today. It would seem too desperate, clingy, stalk-y. Plus, he was still a bit insecure and feared rejection.

Lestrade called John to check on him. Sherlock heard as John explained how he was, in a weird way, glad about this injury, as this led to his meeting Ella for the second time, about how smart and beautiful she was, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

With much effort, Lestrade was able to get a word in to ask if they could come to the Yard on the following day and clarify a few things for his paperwork. John turned to Sherlock and asked if tomorrow would work for him, but only got a shrug and an eye roll in response, which he took it to mean 'do I have a choice?' He violently turned sideways on the couch, facing the back rest, legs coiled up. John assumed the cause of this sulking to be the 'boring' part of the work, having to repeat the obvious, all for the sake of paperwork.

But what really had annoyed Sherlock was hearing all about Ella, Ella, Ella. Twice! It didn't help that Mrs. Hudson had squealed in delight. She was a dear, but sometimes she could be extremely irritating. _At this rate, this will become intolerable._ To shut down these annoying thoughts, he suddenly got up, picked up his violin and started playing quite violently and chaotically (to everybody else's ears).

...

_Ella_, screech, _Ella_, dissonant chord, _Ella_, louder screech. _John's face when talking about her_, off key notes. _She's_ _brilliant_, screech, _smart_, screech, _beautiful_, a group of coruscating screeches. _Oh yes, and full of surprises too!_ Jolting screech! _John's face, smiling while telling all about her_, prolonged screech. _John's smile... _ The screech resolved into a real chord, a G major, and sustained. _How perfect life had been ever since he showed up at St. Bart's._ Pause. All their adventures started parading in front of his eyes, pouring out of their files, and each and every case contained something that had meaning, a happy exchange, some banter, their texts, even their arguments. As much as he relished and enjoyed the challenge of the puzzles, the hunt for clues and evidences, and ultimately, the exhilaration at solving the cases, all of it had been much, much more fun having John by his side. Without him, all would be lost. He had never felt alone until the prospect of loosing John made it real and painful. He would loose him if all went well with Ella... He did care about John, he admitted it now, and knew he only wanted his friend to be happy. His friend... He had never had one before. Just as he would have given his life to protect John, he would also have to let him go. Yes, John's happiness, just as his life, were more important than him, Sherlock. _If and when the time comes, I'll have to let him go._ He dropped the bow and the violin to his sides, as the thought repeated itself inside his head. _I'll have to let him go._ Then with great effort, he pulled himself out of it. _Until then, I'll have to enjoy what I still have. When the time comes - then, I will deal with it._ With that resolve, he turned and went to his bedroom. He wouldn't be able to sleep, but it would be worse to remain in the same room with John.

…...

John (and Mrs. Hudson downstairs) winced at Sherlock's playing. _What could possibly be going on inside his head?_ He seriously hoped this wasn't going to be one of those nights when the violin never stopped screeching. It had been so nice to get enough sleep in the past couple of nights... Then, after a while, there had been a change in the music. There was pause, a transition, then a change of direction, happiness that seemed to last a long time, followed by sadness. Or at least, that's what it sounded like to him.

Sherlock was facing the window, as usual whenever he played. John noticed he could see his face reflected on the glass. As the violin screeched he watched his friend's reflection. His brow was slightly creased and his jaw clenched. He looked angry. John tried to ignore the screeches and concentrate on his book. As the music changed, he looked up again, curious. Sherlock's face was more relaxed now and he seemed as much in a trance as when he retreated into his mind. John put the book down and listened, trying to observe the connection between state of mind, music and face. When the final note sounded, it was melancholic, yearning, and it faded away.

After a few seconds, Sherlock's arms came down, and both the violin and the bow rested at his sides. He remained staring into space, his mind still working, despite the neutral face. Sherlock always dressed up whenever he went out of the flat, but at home he usually wore pyjama bottoms, a t-shirt and a gown. Or rather, if there were no cases, he just didn't bother to change from having got out of bed. The gown had become undone during the violent playing and this time his chest was bare. Under the street lights his skin glowed. Seeing him now, John noticed Sherlock didn't have much hair on his chest. Or rather, no hair, as far as he could tell. That, added to his thin frame _(I need to make sure he eats tomorrow) _made him look just like an overgrown kid, he thought, not for the first time. He felt protective and wished he could understand what was going on in his friend's mind and comfort him. A wave of fondness for this crazy genius that was his flatmate surged up. _His skin is so flawless! _But then his eyes fell on the dressing below his bellybutton. _Shame really, that scar. _Then Sherlock inhaled and lifted his chin.

Suddenly, he spun around and without a word or glance, went to his room.

...

The following day was a Saturday, and John was relieved to have the weekend to recover before going back to work. He felt like he didn't need the crutches anymore, but all the walking, standing and moving around the surgery would've been too much for his injured leg. During cases Sherlock complained that John didn't need to 'waste time with surgery'. Ever since the blog took off, they had been busy enough not to need the extra money, but John insisted in keeping the surgery job at least part-time. Sure, sometimes work could be dull, but he enjoyed practicing medicine and would miss it if he didn't have it in his life. It was part of who he was. Plus, working part-time still allowed him to follow Sherlock when there were cases and didn't require him to be on call. It was also good for his pride to have his own income, and not to depend solely on Sherlock's talents.

He'd been lucky so far to keep his job, and he owed this to his friendship with Sarah. She was in reality his supervisor and dating her had been a crazy idea. Thankfully, after they decided to split up, they became good friends. And she covered for him whenever he'd been too exhausted at work, after chasing criminals the previous night, or what have you. Having experienced up close what his life with Sherlock was like, she understood him.

Sherlock had been a bit withdrawn ever since the art theft case ended two days ago, but that was his normal state post cases. He insisted and nagged, until Sherlock ate some breakfast. Then they were off to the Yard.

...

Author's note: I was pretty happy with the way this chapter turned out... Please review? Thanks!


	5. The courtship dance

A small surprise... I don't know how long of a sick leave the NSY would give their employees, but I tried to be somewhat realistic.

**5. The courtship dance**

At the Yard, when they entered Lestrade's office, there was a young man in a suit, standing and talking to the Inspector.

'Ah, Sherlock! John! Thanks for coming. This is Sergeant Williams. Donovan was injured on our last case and will be on leave for the next six weeks, so Williams was assigned to my team in the meantime.' He was in his late twenties, well dressed and, with dark brown hair and green eyes, good looking.

'Nice to meet you,' John said as they shook hands. Sherlock gave a curt nod and immediately set into processing all the available information. 'Nothing too serious, I hope?' John asked Lestrade, as they sat down. He thought that not having Donovan and her constant antagonistic attitude towards Sherlock for a while would be an improvement. He didn't dislike her (except when she called Sherlock names), but at least there wouldn't be so much arguing and tense situations at crime scenes in the meantime. Williams seemed like a nice guy. He had smiled when meeting them, while Donovan would've scowled. She considered their presence an insult to her work and resented it. Williams on the other hand seemed to understand that Sherlock had a lot to offer and that in the end it would always pay to be on his side.

'She broke her leg, but apparently she was lucky - if that could be said about breaking bones. She didn't need surgery, but will still be in a cast for four weeks. How about you, John, how do you feel?'

'Much better Greg, thanks. I wouldn't be able to run right now, but I can walk without crutches.' He turned to Williams and explained 'I was shot on the leg a couple of days ago.'

'Yes, D.I. Lestrade told me,' he said, smiling. 'I heard a lot about you and Mr. Holmes. I'm happy to have the chance to see you work.' Then he shot an embarrassed look at Lestrade, 'I mean, not that I'm happy Donovan got injured...'

'That's all right, Williams. So, Sherlock, about the evidence you may have "forgotten" to return, a flick knife...'

Sherlock was delighted to hear that Donovan would be away for six heavenly weeks. Unfortunately that would also make Anderson more irritable, being that they probably wouldn't be seeing each other for a while either... A broken leg would surely be an obstacle to their adulterous encounters. _And what about Williams? _He had seen him before at the Yard. Like everybody else, Williams had stared whenever he (and later, John and him) walked through the offices.

_Williams:_

- Speech: _Obvious. Public school, privileged upbringing. _

- Therefore, could've been a lawyer, a doctor, so: _Always wanted to work at the Yard, idealistic, with a romantic notion about police work. _

- Rank/age/working with Lestrade: _competent at work, seems to be on his way to a promising career at the Yard._

- Did not react like Donovan or Anderson: _Clearly smart, seeing that he chose to ignore the negative comments about me solving their cases for them. Will be more cooperative than Donovan and Anderson._

- Smile: _Genuine, what all might call a nice guy, liked by his peers, consistent with going far in his career. _

- Hands/nails trimmed/no calluses/smooth skin: _Single, right handed, never worked with his hands, back to privileged upbringing._

- Suit/shoes: _Not cheap,_ _confirming background, has pride in his job, wants to 'look the part'; no hair stuck to it - no pets. _

- Pecs visible under shirt/strong neck/colour of cheeks/no stains on fingers:_ takes care of himself (exercises, doesn't smoke)._

- Eyes/face/hair/body language: _And... he fancies John._

Without missing a beat, he replied 'No Lestrade, I did not "forget" to return the evidence. I just kept it safely out of Anderson's incompetent hands...'

…...

John called Ella later on that day. Prodded, he gave her a grudgingly honest report on his progress. She too was impressed by his recovery, especially after his spell two days ago. They had a lively and pleasant hour-long talk and somehow had made plans to get a coffee next Tuesday afternoon, before her shift. Her schedule being so full, that was the closest to a date they'd have for the next two weeks. He was elated! She didn't say 'no', and a coffee was a good way to ease into dating and also an excellent chance to learn more about her many intriguing interests. She currently didn't have enough time to pursue all her hobbies. Those included practicing karate, competing in shooting tournaments, sky diving. He was just happy he'd be able to see her again, and not over injuries at A&E for a change. He had a smile on his face for the rest of the day.

In contrast, Sherlock had been sinking into a darker mood, as usual post cases. Concerned, John looked into his blog and suggested a few cases to distract him. After several dismissals, one finally caught his friend's attention. It was more a puzzle than a case, but, as it turns out, it only kept Sherlock 'entertained' for a couple of hours.

John offered to remove Sherlock's stitches; it was time and that would offer a bit of a distraction. He realized that, ever since he had been shot, Sherlock didn't mention his dressing and he himself had forgotten about it. It worried him a bit, but it had been healing nicely last time he had checked, and they hadn't gone out much during that period. Nor had Sherlock done any experiments containing dangerous bacteria or what have you in the meantime. Sherlock acted annoyed, but John could tell he was just trying to hide the fact that he loved being the centre of attention. He laid on the sofa, with his t-shirt raised. John sat at the coffee table and carefully cut and removed them one by one, thinking to himself that the scar looked actually very good. Ella had done quite a good job on Sherlock.

By the fifth one, Sherlock seemed more relaxed and chatted pleasantly about the use of stitches in the early history of Medicine and the different materials used. Up close like this, he noticed that Sherlock did have some hair on his torso, after all. They were just too fine and too sparse to be seen from a distance. His hip bones stuck out, reminding John to keep bugging him to eat. He was always amazed at how much body heat Sherlock produced. It was almost like standing next to a fire. _His skin is just so milky and smooth. It's a shame he'll have this scar marring it now. _Bent over his stomach, John noticed Sherlock's personal scent. Sherlock used unscented products whenever possible, so this was just him, enhanced by his body heat. _Funny how used I am to it. He smells nice._

Sherlock was slightly tense as he pulled up his shirt. He didn't know why, John had patched him up many times before. So he tried to hide his discomfort by acting annoyed. But as John's skilled hands cut and pulled each stitch gently, he relaxed and started to enjoy having his attentions to himself again. Usually he didn't like being touched, but he had always felt comfortable with John. It actually felt good to have someone care for him the way his friend did. He discreetly studied the face above his stomach. Concentration, care, all that made John _John_, open in that face. He looked at the hair, the colour that had always made Sherlock's eyes turn. That had been the first thing he had noticed when John walked into St. Bart's lab. He had always liked blond hair.

Rather too soon to his taste, they were done. Sherlock felt a bit of regret, but then John added 'Wait Sherlock, I'll just apply some antibiotic gel to the cut.' He pulled out a small tube and pushed a pea-sized amount on his forefinger, dabbing gently at the cut. 'Sorry it's cold,' he said, but Sherlock had recoiled slightly at the touch itself, not the temperature. He then added more to his middle finger and finished applying it to the cut. 'Let if dry for a while before covering it up again. You're done! It's healing well.' And, with a pat on the shoulder, he got up, gathered the supplies and left a disappointed Sherlock alone.

By Sunday John felt able to go out and do some shopping. They were almost out of tea and milk again. Just a short trip. Mrs. Hudson offered to help him carry the groceries, but he waved her off, promising her he wouldn't exert himself. After all, she was their landlady, not their housekeeper, he said charmingly. She was thrilled when he told her he'd be seeing Ella the following Tuesday.

When he returned, he wondered how was it that Sherlock's muscles didn't just atrophy between cases. He hadn't moved much in these past three days.

Sherlock sat at the paneled room number 5.

…..

Monday came and John went back to work in the morning. He texted Sherlock to let him know he'd be back late afternoon. He wanted to look good for Ella and decided to go shopping for clothes, something he never cared much for.

By Tuesday, John could barely contain himself. Work seemed to drag on and on. Every time he looked at his watch he was shocked to see how slow time seemed to be moving. Finally, he made it home, took another shower, shaved again, and put on his new jeans. Not as loose as what he was used to, but not as tight as Sherlock's trousers. He had to agree with the salesgirl, the cut and the dark wash made him look good. Paired with one of his new shirts, both made him look sharp. It was casual enough for a cafe, but nice enough to make him look good for Ella. As he came into the sitting room, Sherlock was laying on the sofa, fingertips pressed together under his chin. But he turned and looked at John.

'What do you think?' he asked, spreading his arms.

'New clothes?' he frowned.

'Yes,' he admitted a little embarrassed. 'How do I look?' he asked apprehensively.

'Fine,' he answered flatly. John looked unconvinced, so he added 'much better than your other clothes.' Somehow that didn't seem to help. 'Oh please, John. You look good. She'll like it.' That finally made John relax and smile. _He looks really good._ _She will like it_, he thought sadly.

...

Despite being nervous, as soon as he saw Ella he forgot all his worries. She was casually dressed, but looked stunning. Her hair was up in the usual bun, as she was going to work after this. But her jeans and simple flowery top showed her shape much better than the scrubs. Nothing overly tight, just flattering and feminine, which he noticed appreciatively. As usual, they hit it off and had a great time. They only had to part because she was due to her shift.

'John, I had a good time today. I always enjoy talking to you.'

'I'm glad to hear that. When can I see you again?'

She crinkled her nose. He loved this about her. She wasn't afraid of making funny faces to express herself. Rather than being unflattering it only made her funny, fun and cuter. 'Ah, John. That's the problem... I'm going to a conference this weekend! I travel Thursday and won't be back until next Monday. I'll only be available next Tuesday, and again, for a quick coffee.' She seemed as disappointed as he was, and even a bit... worried?

'It's a date then. Same time, same place?' he said without hesitation, with a smile.

That brought that radiant smile back to her face, 'Yes! Same time, same place.'

'Can I call you while you are away?'

'Yes, please do. If I don't answer, it might because I'm attending a lecture, but I'll try to return your call as soon as possible, if this happens.' With that, she touched his arm and gave him a peck on the cheek. She left, still smiling at him. That gave him butterflies on his stomach. _This might just work!_

...

As he walked in the front door, Sherlock had been on the process of sweeping down the stairs. He made John turn around and walk. 'Lestrade called! Case! Triple homicide!' was all he said, with a glint in his eyes.

Sherlock filled him in during the ride. As they arrived at the crime scene, Lestrade and Williams awaited them. Williams and John exchanged a smile and a nod. But as the doctor turned away to listen to Lestrade, Sherlock saw Williams' eyes travel up and down John's body. _He too, likes John's new clothes, apparently. Also... Williams would like John _out_ of his new clothes..._ Annoyed, Sherlock pushed these thoughts away and concentrated on the crime scene.

Williams had heard all about Sherlock's puzzling behaviour, his seeming lack of interest in both men and women, his strange relationship with John, John's even more puzzling acceptance of Sherlock and the undefinable bond between the two of them. Despite all the jokes about them being a couple, everybody knew that Sherlock was just too unusual to be in _any_ relationship. Plus John always protested about not being gay. Sure, Sherlock was gorgeous, but evidently completely unattainable. John, on the other hand, with all this mystery and mystique surrounding him, was extremely intriguing, interesting, alluring. Usually he was attracted to guys more his age. But there was something about John that made him so charming and attractive and today he looked positively scrummy. _One could only dream... _

As Sherlock and Anderson started a row and Lestrade tried to keep them from coming to blows, Williams got to talk to John. They joked, and occasionally Williams touched John's arm to make a point. Sherlock finally extricated himself from Anderson and came to where they were standing and talking. Without pausing or slowing down, he said 'John, we need to go. Williams, stop flirting with John. He's very straight and is currently starting a new relationship with a very beautiful woman. So save yourself from heartache and leave him alone.'

Both John and Williams stood open mouthed for a few seconds, staring at Sherlock's retreating back. He spun around and shouted while still walking backwards 'John! We need to go!' Without pause, he spun again and kept on walking, looking for a taxi. John snapped out of it and looked at Williams, embarrassed. 'Em.. Sorry about this. Sherlock is not... very good with people. I... sorry.' He had to break into a run to get into the taxi.

'Sherlock! That was uncalled for!' he said as soon as he sat down.

'John, were you blind? He was clearly flirting with you. I just saved him the trouble of fruitlessly trying to court you, especially now that your date went so well.'

'How-' John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Sherlock, there are better ways to treat people. You're not doing yourself any favours by antagonizing one more of Greg's people.' He fell silent, still shaking his head.

Sherlock watched him sideways. Then he smiled sheepishly 'The date did go well, didn't it?'

John smiled, 'You already know it did, you prat!' With that, they both chuckled.

'So you'll see her again?'

'Same time, same place, next week. We'll have to wait until she's back from a conference.'

Sherlock's smile faded as he turned to the window.

…..

This was a particularly difficult case. Almost a 9, a rare treat. It was thrilling, interesting, fascinating. It kept Sherlock's mind fully engaged. _I've missed something! Always something! _ He knew the murderer had made a mistake somewhere. Anderson continued to be annoying but Williams had stopped his advances towards John. _One less distraction._ Also, with Ella at a convention John had more of his time to accompany him hunting down clues – aside from the hours wasted in surgery. True, they kept calling one another while she was away, which meant he wasn't available for at least an hour at a time. But John always made sure he waited until they had finished a case-related task before calling her.

He had been extremely annoyed with Williams flirting with John. The attentions his friend always seemed to get from women were always annoying, but that a handsome young man would also fawn over him felt worse. _The nerve! As if _he_ could completely change John's orientation. _He paused. _He couldn't. Could he?_ John had been extra nice to Williams the next few times they had seen each other. He was trying to compensate for Sherlock's rudeness, so Williams wouldn't feel bad or embarrassed. It made Sherlock's skin prickle every time John treated Williams so nicely. He could still see admiration and desire in Williams' eyes every time they interacted. _No matter. Soon Donovan will be back._

By the end of the week the culprit (not a suspect, as the Yard insisted on calling him) was safely behind bars.

'Sherlock, that was brilliant!'

John's usual comment made him happy again. All was well.

_…__..._

The second date with Ella was just like the first, better even. There was definitely electricity in the air. He had been pleased that she had also called him while she was away. She had been just as eager to know how his days went, to hear about the cases with Sherlock, and had started reading his blog. She loved his writing, she said. Throughout all this, John realized with some surprise that what attracted him the most was her personality. Surely, she was beautiful, had a great smile and a great figure. But he could just sit and talk to her for hours and still have a great time. It made him happy. It wasn't just that she had so much to say, but also the way in which she talked. She had a witty sense of humour and always made him laugh. She was very observant, with a deep understanding of human nature. She also had a wealth of knowledge in art, music, movies and books. She was fascinating. He couldn't believe someone like her existed.

Despite this being technically only their second date, all the long talks they had had for the past week and a half made him feel like they've known each other for much longer. She said her next day off was on the following Saturday, so as her Friday shift ended at four, she'd be free for a 'proper date' that evening. John was so happy to hear this he was jumping and punching the air on the inside. They made plans to go to dinner. He wanted to take her to a really nice restaurant that had received great reviews on the paper. She loved Thai food, so that was perfect! Today, as they parted, they kissed for the first time. That sent shivers down his spine. He didn't know how he'd survive until Friday.


	6. The big night

Up to this point, Sherlock had never seen John interacting with one of his girlfriends...

**6. The big night**

Sherlock was peering into his microscope. He had just finished a case that had prompted him to try some new and interesting experiments. He had been very focused studying cultures and making notes of the results, when he realized it was past John's usual time to come home from work. He thought of texting him when he heard the front door unlock and the familiar sounds of John's dangling keys and his footsteps on the stairs. John walked in carrying a plastic covered hanger over one shoulder and some takeaway food on the other hand. He was beaming.

'Hi, Sherlock! How was your day? I texted you, but didn't hear from you, so I brought you some takeaway all the same. I assumed you would forget to eat today, again,' he said, placing the food over the counter.

'You've got a haircut.'

'Yes! How do I look? Is it too short? Too "military"?' He turned his head around to better show it.

'No. It looks... fine.' It was different, and Sherlock hated change. It was short on the sides and a bit longer than usual on top. It was subtle, but now that he looked closely, he liked it.

'I asked Sarah, and she referred me to her stylist. He was good, gave me all this information about the shape of my face that I had never even thought of and asked me to trust him. I was a bit skeptical at first, but I think it turned out well. Do you think Ella will like it?'

_Ah, yes. Today is THE date. I had forgotten about it momentarily. That's why he's so hyper._ 'New suit also?' he asked nodding at John's shoulder.

'Just a new jacket and a couple of trousers. The salesgirl was so helpful last time that I went back today for more advice. I'd better go get ready.'

It seemed an exaggeration, as it was only four in the afternoon, and the dinner date was not until seven. Usually, John cleaned up and got ready for his dates in about thirty five minutes at the most, if he was going for a close shave without nicks. But this time he took so long that Sherlock wondered if he might've fallen asleep in the bathroom or in his bedroom. An hour and forty five minutes later, John finally came downstairs. Sherlock had been playing his violin, but stopped as soon as he heard John enter the sitting room and turned.

He was stunned.

'So... How do I look?' he asked nervously, spreading his arms.

_Handsome. Attractive._ And other thoughts came to Sherlock's mind that made his stomach lurch. He had never truly thought John was attractive until now. John had pressed his new shirt with military precision, and his shoes were polished to perfection. His new black trousers and jacket had a more tailored cut and were even more flattering than what he had worn at the cafe dates. The soft green of the shirt made his eyes look lighter blue with a touch of green. He felt suddenly very warm and stammered. 'Good-Em-I-Fine.' He paused to collect his thoughts and clear his throat. 'If Ella doesn't like it, she's a fool.'

John relaxed and beamed. Then he noticed the untouched food on the counter and made Sherlock a plate, making him sit down and eat under his watch. Sherlock in turn forced himself to eat, just to please John. But the thoughts that crowded his mind right now made the food tasteless. Satisfied that Sherlock had had at least ten bites of food, John looked at his watch and started grabbing his keys, phone and wallet. He still wanted to get some flowers on his way to her flat...

'Oh, and Sherlock, I may or may not to be back until tomorrow. Will you be okay?'

He winced internally, but replied as coolly as he could, 'John, I'm an adult, not a child.'

'Yes, yes, I know. But you are not planning on doing any experiments while I'm away, are you? Anything with fire or explosives?'

'No, just some more microscope work. I still have a stack of cultures to go through.'

'Great. Fine. Well, have a good time, then.' He still seemed hesitant to leave, as if fearing a major disaster by leaving Sherlock alone.

'John, just go,' he sighed, rolling his eyes.

'Okay. Bye.'

Sherlock just grunted a vague response.

He put his fork down, interlaced his fingers in front of his lips and sank into thought. Within a minute he came to a decision. He didn't know what came over him or what he expected to accomplish, but decided to go observe them. He knew which restaurant they were going to (that's all John had talked about for the past four days). He also knew the manager there (who owed him a favour), so he quickly got dressed and went out.

...

Sherlock arrived at the restaurant before them. He knew the place had a partial height wall shielding the view into the kitchen. Which also had a one-way view window, so the waiters could see through and not collide with each other. To the customers, it looked like a decorative mirror. He told the manager he was following someone, assuring no one was dangerous, just a small case of a suspicious spouse.

The restaurant was very nice, trendy, but cozy. John finally arrived with Ella. She looked attractive, in a black dress, classy (_albeit a bit safe_, Sherlock thought), not too high heels (_smart, so she's not taller than John_). Her hair was styled up, very feminine, not the usual tight bun, showcasing her neck, framed also by a simple necklace. Everything showed careful planning in her attire. John looked radiantly happy. It pained him to watch, but he couldn't stop himself. Instead of sitting across from each other, they sat at an angle on the square table. Sherlock could see her in profile while John was facing him. They were fully immersed in each other, their mutual attraction palpable to Sherlock. Once, while she was distracted with the waiter, he noticed John's eyes dart down to her neckline, quickly and discreetly. With a sinking feeling, he read approval and desire in that look. When their dessert plates had been cleared, Sherlock thanked the manager and left through the back door. He found a taxi and waited for them to come out. It was dark now.

Outside her block of flats, he quickly scanned the street, ran to a side alley, while watching out for which window would light up after they had entered the building. Once he saw which one was hers, he climbed a fire escape ladder, up a downspout, and landed onto the roof of a building across the street.

Just as he perched himself at the ledge, he saw John come and stand at the window below, looking out at the view, thumbs hooked into his pockets. He didn't have his jacket on anymore and looked good. His new shirt emphasized his trim shape. Then two arms appeared around John's chest. Ella's smiling face was next to John's, and she pointed something out on the distance, to his right. He looked at what she was pointing, commented on it, also smiling. Just then, she moved her hand over his left shoulder. She pulled his shirt slightly away from his skin and lightly bit the base of his neck. With a sharp intake of breath, his head shot up and rested against her, his eyes closed, lips parted, leaving that side of his neck still exposed. She smiled through the bite and did it again, lower this time. His breathing had quickened. He turned around slowly, keeping his head connected to hers, eyes still closed. He held her face with both hands and kissed her passionately, eagerly, full of desire. As he slowed down into the kiss, his hands went down around her waist. Sherlock saw John's tongue slowly go inside her mouth while his hands traveled up and down her back. She responded in kind, one of her hands buried in his hair, the other around his shoulder blades. They broke the kiss to breathe, keeping their cheeks pressed together. Her eyes were closed. Then she pulled away, looked into his eyes, extended her hands and guided John away from the window. Sherlock saw no more.

He didn't know how long he just stood there, with those images replaying inside his head, over and over again. He felt... a deep sense of loss. Eventually he made it down and headed back home. It would be a long night.


	7. A very intimate moment

Author's note: Okay, this was very hard for me to write... A short one, but hopefully satisfying. I'm not a prude, but I always felt that being too explicit didn't quite fit the characters. Well, this was my first story, after all. After writing a few more stories, I ended up throwing this rule of mine out the window. But for now, let's be coy. Hope you enjoy. Review if you can, let me know if it works or not... Thanks!

**7. A very intimate moment**

John's past girlfriends had always praised him on how good he was in bed. He attributed that to the fact that the most exciting thing for him was to give pleasure. Seeing his partner enjoying herself was always a turn on for him.

He really liked Ella, so he wanted tonight to be special. He took his time. It had been particularly exciting when they had removed each other's clothes. Very seductive and thrilling when, at his request, she let her hair down, having it cascade around her shoulders. He had enjoyed touching it, running his fingers through it.

John had to stop many times, whenever it got too intense. He wanted it to last, so they could both enjoy it. Finally, when he couldn't hold himself any longer, he gently rolled her onto her back, pausing to look at her.

'You are so beautiful!' he murmured. Her hair had spread around the pillow, beautiful, lush and shiny. She smiled at him. He lowered himself down and she gasped, moaning softly through her parted lips, closing her eyes and turning her head slightly to one side. He placed one arm around and under her shoulder blades and the other under her neck, cradling her head. He kissed and licked her neck, her earlobe, then buried his face in her hair. He loved the way it smelled and felt. He could smell her shampoo, but underneath it, there was a different smell. Hers. It was bliss. He was ready.

She knew he was close now. She let her breath escape through her lips, saying his name against his ear. He quickened his pace. He felt delirious and beginning to loose control. He wanted to look at her and kiss her luscious lips once more. He opened his eyes, but all he saw was a mass of black curls.

Black curls. Unbidden, before he could stop himself, images of Sherlock's elegant neck framed by his black curls, his face, the pale skin of his torso, his long fingers playing the violin, came to his mind all at once. For a fraction of a second he was alarmed. He almost stopped, but right then, she bit him. If there was one thing that always excited him and sent him over the edge were light bites between his neck and shoulders. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. He couldn't stop now. She bit him again, a little lower and harder this time. Sherlock's black curls, Sherlock's skin, Sherlock's fingers, Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's lips, Sherlock's face, Sherlock's stomach.

'Oh, John...' came the voiceless whisper again.

Ella felt the sudden temperature increase in John's body. In one second, his body became sweaty, and there were goose pimples on his back and chest. John had never been very vocal during sex, but this time he surprised himself at how loud he was. This had to be the most intense experience of all his life. This time, it seemed like it was never ending. His breathing was out of control and his heartbeat, deafening thuds in his ears. He thought he was going to pass out.

...

Still struggling to breathe, his mind slowly came back into focus. He was stunned. He didn't understand what had just happened to him. He pulled himself carefully, rolled over, still trying to catch his breath, and placed his forearm over his eyes.

Ella rolled and curled herself onto his side. 'Wow,' she whispered, her face on his shoulder. He freed that arm and put it around her shoulders in response, as she repositioned herself in the crook of his arm. She too seemed exhausted. Before he knew it, he had drifted off.

John woke up with a start and it took him a few seconds to recall where he was and what had just happened. He looked over and Ella was asleep on her side, facing him. It was still dark outside, but apparently both of them had fallen asleep before turning out the light. She was so beautiful... He was torn and didn't know what to do. Suddenly he felt the need to be alone and think. He went to the bathroom and cleaned up his mess; he had fallen asleep before removing his condom.

He dressed up quietly and, after some thought, left her a note.

**'Sherlock texted me. I'd better go and make sure he doesn't set the flat on fire. I'm sorry, John.'**

The situation called for something sweet, but he couldn't think of what to say. He had been looking forward to waking up and having breakfast with her on the following day. He had always thought of the 'morning-after breakfast' as a very romantic and intimate moment. Now he just needed to get away. He turned out the light and left quietly.

Once outside, he didn't know what to do, where to go, what to think. He kept on walking. What had just happened? He thought he was in love with Ella, she was so... perfect! Sherlock was his friend. His best friend. He had never been attracted to guys before._ I've never had any desire for any man before._

Perhaps because her hair had always been pulled back every time they had met, he hadn't made the connection between her beautiful hair and Sherlock's curls. He had always thought part of what made Sherlock so handsome were his boyish black curls contrasting with his icy blue eyes and pale skin. A physical representation of the contradictions within this incredible man that was his flatmate.

Painfully, his own words echoed in his head... _She's brilliant, smart, full of surprises! And beautiful,_ he completed, in dismay. These words could easily describe Sherlock too. He remembered thinking to himself that Ella and Sherlock would have matched perfectly, had they been interested. Except for the fact that she was easy to get along with, they were very much alike in many ways. They were both unique. Yet, both had many interests, many skills, a wealth of knowledge and a perfect memory. Both were very smart, beautiful, graceful, attractive. Even her eyes were also blue, but of the kind that looked more like a solid light colour, as opposed to the crystal clear of Sherlock's. Her skin was also pale, but she had cute freckles on her nose.

Tonight his enjoyment had been sincere. He was _really_ attracted to her and they seemed to match perfectly in their interests, passions, personality, sense of humour. And they were physically a good match too. She had quickly discovered what made his knees go weak. He had enjoyed giving her pleasure again and again. Then the final moment came back to him. He had lost all control.

Then he thought of Sherlock. Sherlock, so oblivious to all the attention he drew from both sexes whenever he entered a room. Sherlock, who could have anyone he wanted, so uninterested in relationships or sex. Sherlock, who considered himself married to his work. The images came back to his eyes. He remembered all the multiple occasions in which he had admired his friend's features, eyes, voice, skills... body. That naked pale torso, framed by the open gown. Now for the first time he realized what he felt for Sherlock went beyond fondness for a friend. It had been there, he just couldn't tell since when. He just had never acknowledged it or recognized it for what it was. He stopped and shook himself. _But what is it, exactly?_ With a mixture of shame and a strange frisson, he realized this had been the most intense orgasm of all his life.

Yet, he also felt desire and attraction for Ella. She could give him everything that Sherlock never would. A relationship, love, sex. And up to that last moment, the sex had been fantastic. He was utterly confused. _This was madness!_


	8. Storms ahead

**8. Storms ahead**

Sherlock had been laying on the sofa in the dark, ever since returning to the flat. He could not stop thinking of John's pleasure at that simple bite on the neck. She was really clever. In one second, John was completely hers. The sight of his tongue pushing inside her mouth... His desire, both at the restaurant and in front of the window were... enticing, sensual, arousing. This was the first time Sherlock had seen a glimpse of John's intimate life. Despite himself, he was getting aroused remembering John's face, his desire and pleasure so evident.

No matter what Mycroft may think, he was no stranger to sex. He had experimented with both men and women in the past (how could he not?), but had never felt any attachment to anyone. In his experience throughout Uni and for a few years afterwards, every single individual with whom he had had sex with were extremely boring people, uninteresting, clingy. Sure, some had a very satisfying level of expertise, but they all wanted a commitment that he had no desire to give. Ultimately, this was enough data for him to declare it useless, not worth the brief elation such encounters produced. Not to mention the experiences that were unwelcome to him. Mycroft had taken control of his finances during those darker times of his life, to keep him from spending his money on drugs. He did what he had to do, and did his best to delete such memories.

Just around that time, he had started consulting for the Scotland Yard. This had been a revelation that ultimately saved him from self destruction. Sherlock might have invented his job, but it was Mycroft who had arranged the initial connection with the Yard. His brother knew this was what he needed. The cases gave him satisfaction in a completely different way, surpassing even his need for drugs. This puzzle solving engaged his mind, absorbing and calming his feverish brain. His entire being was consumed by it in a much, much deeper level. Since then, The Work had been the only thing in his life.

But this... what he felt now, this was different. He wished he could've been the one giving John that much pleasure. His mind went off creating images that he had no control over. He untied his gown and ran his hand over his chest. He hadn't done this in a long time. He'd been always too busy to distract himself with physical needs.

'John...' he said in a voiceless whisper.

...

His eyes snapped open as he heard the soft click of the front door closing downstairs. He had dozed off. _John? Coming back in the middle of the night?_ Footsteps started moving up the stairs, quiet, tentative. Then he remembered the state he was in. He yanked the gown across his body and turned quickly towards the back of the sofa. He feigned the deep breathing of sleep.

John paused at the door, seeing Sherlock's figure sleeping on the sofa. There was enough light coming in from the street to delineate Sherlock's back and shoulders. He turned to go, hesitated, then went to the bathroom. He took a shower before going to bed.

Sherlock was tense as he felt John's eyes on him. He noticed the half step, the hesitation. _Did something go wrong? Why was he home in the middle of the night? Did he want to talk about it, that's why the hesitation? No, I couldn't talk to him in the state I'm in. He would know what I had done, there would be questions... Then he would know. And he would leave!_ Once John had gone upstairs, he got up and went quietly to his room. He'd have to shower before John got up, and also wash his pyjama bottoms and gown separately.

John didn't know what he'd say if Sherlock asked him about his date. Or what he'd say if asked why he had returned home when it had been clear he had hoped to spend the night with Ella. And he didn't know how he'd ever be able to act normal around Sherlock or look him in the eye again. He'd have to. What other choice did he have?

Despite all his worries, John had been exhausted and, after turning around, changing positions and fretting for a couple of hours, fell asleep as the sky was getting lighter. When he finally emerged by late morning, Sherlock was wearing his red robe instead of the usual blue one. He was on his chair, curled up, with his arms around his legs. As John entered the room, there was a slight dislodging in Sherlock's pose, but only his eyes moved towards John.

'Good morning.'

'You came home in the middle of the night.'

_Agh. Trust Sherlock not to be discreet and to politely observe that unwritten rule of avoiding awkward questions... _'Yes' he sighed, walking towards the kitchen and starting the kettle.

'So... How was your date?'

... 'Fine! Fine.'

'Is there anything wrong?'

'No! Erm... no.'

_Why is he acting like this? Something did go wrong. _

There was a long pause, in which Sherlock tried to figure out what to say next.

'John, if there's anything I -'

'Sherlock! Please! I don't want to be rude, but there's nothing... I don't want to talk about it, all right?'

'Okay.'

'Fine.'

During this exchange, John had been avoiding Sherlock's eyes, busying himself with the kettle, mugs, tea bags. He sighed and paused. Still not looking up, he asked 'Would you like some tea?'

Throughout the silent breakfast, John felt Sherlock's intense stare. He knew his friend was trying to read him and find out what was wrong, so once he was done with his toast he went back to his room. It hadn't escaped Sherlock's attention that John had showered when he had come in last night. Usually, he wouldn't have bothered. Coming home after his dates, he seemed to perhaps unconsciously enjoy the reminder of a wild night with whatever girl he had been dating at the time. This time it was different. It was as if he wanted to erase the memories of what had just happened. Why? He seemed to be enjoying himself while he had watched... Then John's phone rang. He came downstairs at a run, took the phone, hesitated, quickly glancing in Sherlock's direction. He answered the phone as he dashed back upstairs. This time, Sherlock heard the door closing.

...

He tried to act normal, telling her about a previous incident involving an experiment with fire. He neglected to add it had happened a few months ago. She laughed and asked if he could come back, so they could 'spend the day together also'. He hoped it didn't sound phoney, but tried his best to explain Sherlock's 'danger' times, when he was a danger to himself and possibly, to others around him. He apologized profusely and she forgave him, citing the previous night as more than a compensation for today. He cringed with embarrassment. He ended the call by pretending he had heard an alarming sound coming from downstairs. He flopped backwards onto the bed and covered his face with both hands.

He more or less hid from Sherlock that day, emerging later only to get something to eat, finding nothing, then opting for going out for some takeaway. He finally noticed a much subdued Sherlock, and asked if he was all right.

'Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier... I'm going to get some food, would you eat if I got you some?'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Sherlock, you need to eat. How about some Indian?'

'Not hungry,' he sighed.

After dinner (and much lecturing about malnutrition and a few conceded bites), John tried to keep Sherlock company, to make up for hiding the entire day. He still felt a bit under intense (yet discreet) scrutiny, but tried his best to pretend his book was really interesting. Sherlock didn't know what to do. John had hid himself the entire day, had a very short conversation with Ella and still looked distraught. He hated seeing him unhappy. Without any answers, he did what he'd normally do when he didn't know the words. He stood up, picked up his violin and faced the window. He played softly, hoping this would relax John, maybe make him sleep.

John glanced up as his friend stood up and put his book down when the music started. Then he saw the reflection on the window and looked away, embarrassed. But eventually his eyes went back to the reflected image. His eyes were closed, he was back into a trance, inside his own mind. _Ah, how fortunate Sherlock is, to be able to shut down the outside world like this._ The music was poignant, still a bit melancholic, but gentle, tender. It was almost an embrace that said 'everything will be okay.' Maybe he was just reading into it what he wanted to hear. He was not a musician, after all. But the music was soft, soothing. He closed his eyes, dropped his head back and just enjoyed that quiet moment. Maybe he'd be able to handle this after all. This friendship meant so much to him, he'd do anything to keep it. _I've been through a lot. I survived. I can do this._

On Sunday, John tried to run errands just to keep out of the house as much as possible.

On Monday, he went to work without seeing Sherlock. _Just as well_, he thought.


	9. Another date

About the previous chapter, I don't buy that Sherlock is asexual. He doesn't have a problem with sex, he has a problem with people. He'd be too curious to not at least try. Plus the drug years...

**9. Another date**

Sherlock waited in his room until he heard John leave for work. He was consumed by the puzzle of the failed date. Try as he might he could not figure out what had gone wrong. He didn't think his friend had ever had issues in the bedroom. If he had, that would've come up before. He didn't have enough data. He didn't know how Ella was dealing with it. She mustn't have been angry, after all, she had called on the following day. So that narrowed the issue to be on John's side... Not enough data!

...

It was a huge effort to concentrate on his patients that morning. Even Sarah noticed there was something wrong. He considered her a good friend, but he didn't feel comfortable discussing relationships with her. And he would most definitely not talk to her about his newly discovered attraction (?) for Sherlock.

Late morning, he got a text from Ella.

- **miss you! is your flat still standing? ella**

It took him a couple of seconds to figure out what she meant. _Oh yes, that was my excuse last Saturday._

**- Yes, thankfully! JW**

**- same place, same time tomorrow?**

He cringed. What should he say? **-Call you later. Gotta go, sorry! JW**

- **no problem. call me between 8 & 10.**

He was sweating now.

...

He didn't want to go home to be scrutinized again. Then he remembered that since his leg injury, he hadn't really exercised. He had also been distracted with Ella. _Yes, that would get me out of the house for a bit and I need to keep in shape._ So he went home, changed and went out for a run. It was a sluggish one, but it felt good to be able to exercise again, to burn some energy. He'd do a short run today, just to get back on track. His injured leg seemed to be holding all right. The scar itself was still a little tender to the touch, but otherwise was healing well. He had to give it to Ella, the scar left by her stitches was much fainter by now. Maybe that nurse had been right after all.

He tried to use this time to think about what to say to Ella. But by the end of the run he still felt clueless. After a run he would usually do push ups and sit ups at home. He had to do them in his room, for in the past Sherlock had complained about all the 'distracting and irritating huffing and puffing'. He debated about skipping it, but decided it was best to do it. He had to be in good shape to live through their crazy lifestyle. He needed to get some dumbbells.

When he returned, Sherlock was at the kitchen table looking through his microscope. John went to the sink for a cup of water before heading upstairs. Sherlock couldn't help but look. He considered telling John to exercise downstairs, so he could watch. But couldn't think of a good way to say it and not sound strange. Not after all his past complaints. In longish shorts and an old t-shirt, this was the most skin he had ever seen John bare. The t-shirt, clingy with sweat, allowed Sherlock to glean at the muscles below. And he noticed how quite sculpted John's calves were. He felt heat spreading through his body. _No, this won't do._ He suddenly got up and went to his room. After this reaction, he knew he couldn't watch John exercise.

John was relieved with the lack of questions, but it was curious that Sherlock seemed to be withdrawing too.

At night he did call her and they talked about their days. There had been a huge car accident involving many vehicles, so the emergency room had been packed with severe injuries. She was distraught for having lost one of the patients, but there was nothing they could have done to save that poor woman. John had lost many patients and friends in Afghanistan, so he knew how she felt. She needed comfort and he tried to give it to her. She told him about the surgeries she had had to perform throughout her day. It was good to date someone that could understand what their work was like, to discuss the procedures as equals, without having to explain things, or fearing people's usual queasiness about blood, she said. They ended up talking for a long time again, and agreed to meet on the following afternoon.

He went back downstairs and just watched some silly shows on the telly that night. Not that he paid any attention to them. Sherlock sat staring at the TV, but his mind was elsewhere.

...

On the following day, John went home after work to get cleaned up for his date. There had been a lot of patients that day, so he felt a bit tired. It also didn't help to have the prospect of a date after what had happened. Sherlock wasn't home, but did reply to his text, saying he was 'out doing some research.'

He had been nervous the whole day, but when Ella came in smiling, he couldn't help but to do the same. So they talked about work, Sherlock's crazy experiments, movies, books, everything. As usual, he had a good time talking to her. Despite himself, he still felt very attracted to her. When they parted, she kissed him and whispered in his ear. He blushed, which made her laugh. His body still reacted to her touches, her smell, her kiss.

He stayed at the cafe for a while, but decided he needed a drink more than extra coffee. He walked to a pub nearby, ordered a pint and just sat at the bar, staring down at the counter, thinking. Just as the happy hour crowd started to come in, he decided to go home.

When he arrived at the flat there were still no signs of Sherlock. That always worried him. But after about ten minutes he came in.

'So what were you researching? Is that a new case?'

'Birth certificates. No case.'

John waited for the rest of the explanation, but when none came he asked '...And?'

'Oh, just an old case. Mere curiosity. Did you go on a date today? You went to a cafe _and _a pub this time?'

'Em. Yes, I went on a date. No, we didn't go to a pub, but I did afterwards.' _How come he always knew these things?_

'Coffee and beer smells, John. Obvious! How are things? With you and Ella, I mean.'

'Fine. We'll get together again Friday.'

Something was off. Sherlock could tell John wasn't as ecstatic as in the previous week. He had actually gone to do some research on birth certificates. Ella's birth certificate. Well, she was not a transsexual. He was confident that she wasn't a hermaphrodite either, seeing that John had taken a long time to come home. Any unpleasant discovery (unpleasant for John) would've ended the evening much quicker than that. Plus, it was only John that seemed to be acting strange.

Sherlock had actually waited outside their flat earlier on and had followed John, to observe their date and gather more data. They still seemed to be doing well, laughing and talking. John seemed to be having a good time, he looked happy. And they kissed. And he had blushed to whatever it was that she whispered in his ear. Sherlock's stomach had lurched at this sight. Only afterwards, when John went to a pub by himself, he let his guard down. Sherlock followed him and watched from a distance. He still seemed worried, with a lot in his mind. He had waited ten minutes outside on the street before following John into the flat so not to draw suspicion. Yet, they were going out again. Nothing made sense.

She called him the next evening and again, it seemed like they had a lot to say to each other.

When Friday came, Sherlock didn't think he could watch John's date again. Throughout the morning he was sinking into depression, imagining what was going to happen that night. He tried everything he could think of to distract himself, to no avail. He stuck a couple of nicotine patches on his arm. He paced around the flat. Sat and tried to work into his personal blog. Then skipped it and looked into John's blog (no new entries, he was running behind being so busy with Ella). He added two nicotine patches. He got up and texted Lestrade, asking for a case. Sat and tried to look into his microscope. Got up and tried to play the violin. Put it down and added one more patch.

John finally came in. Then, after nagging him about the number of nicotine patches on his arms, changed quickly and went out on a run. _He wants to pump up his muscles and look good for her..._ Sherlock paced some more and finally got a reply from Lestrade (- **Sorry, nothing for you at the moment. GL**), which made him growl in frustration. After finishing his routine, John made them both some tea, trying to get Sherlock to eat something. By now Sherlock was feeling rotten with so much nicotine added to his anguish, so he definitely could not eat.

'I need a case, John. I texted Lestrade, but he didn't have anything for me. My brain is going to explode!' he said, pacing around.

'Why don't you try to study some new subject?'

'Like what!?' he spat in frustration.

'I don't know, Sherlock! Surely there's some flesh eating bacteria that messes with forensics that you haven't studied yet!'

'Aargh!' he resumed his pacing.

'I... Sherlock, I'm going out with Ella tonight. Will you be okay?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued his pacing.

'Sherlock, you worry me when you're like this. Listen, I-'

He stopped his pacing, turning abruptly and interrupting 'John, I'll be fine.' Then he turned towards the window, leaning his forehead on his bent arm, resting against the window frame. His breathing contradicted his words.

John had been about to offer to cancel his date. He did worry about Sherlock whenever he was hyper like this; some disaster was sure to happen. He didn't know what to do. He hesitated, then went to him. 'Sherlock, please. Will you text me if you need me? You're worrying me.'

Sherlock closed his eyes. Then opened them and moved his head slightly toward his back, but avoiding eye contact. 'John, do not worry. I'll be fine.'

...

He sat, despondent, while John got ready for his date. He still took care in getting ready, but his time it only took him an hour and twenty minutes, Sherlock noted. When John emerged, he still looked attractive (his stomach somersaulted in agreement), but seemed to be a bit... too neutral about it. Finally, he was off.

Sherlock had been considering again whether or not to follow. He didn't want to see more of their pleasure together, it hurt too much. But in the end, he couldn't sit still. He remembered John mentioning where they were going to dinner. Once again, he hurried to get dressed and went straight to the restaurant. This time, he had to bribe the hostess to sit him at a hidden spot where he'd be able to observe them.

…..

Ella looked even more beautiful today. This time, knowing that John liked her hair (given their last night together), she wore it down. She pinned just part of it, to keep it out of her face, but the rest was loose over her shoulders. This time she had a red dress on, very flattering, black heels, a grey purse, a necklace and a pair of earrings. The effect was quite pleasing. John tried to act normal, but Ella had noticed there was something wrong as soon as he picked her up. She tried to get him to talk, but he said he'd just had a rough day at work. That worried her a bit, but when nervous she tended to talk and joke more. Which helped him (and herself too, as their dinner progressed) relax. They had another pleasant dinner, talking about their childhoods, growing up, their lives before meeting. She had a great number of funny stories about her childhood. She had this effect on him, very soothing, always turning his moods around.

Later on at her flat, she offered him some wine and they sat on the sofa, with their backs to the window. She removed her shoes, tucked her legs under herself, and sat facing him, glass in hand. He had taken his jacket off, and sat with his free arm at the back of the sofa, turning himself towards her, one leg bent under the other. Tentatively, she leaned forward to kiss him. He kissed her back, then gradually, their arms moved around each other, glasses put away and forgotten. Their passion grew, he kissed her neck, as he knew she liked. She in turn gave him the light bite on his favourite spot and he moaned softly. His body responded and he felt desire again. They went back to kissing and this time their tongues caressed each other's, and his hands traveled down her body, making her moan. He gently guided her down on the sofa with a kiss.

At that, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He ran away, blindly, and scrambled down the fire escape ladder.

As he kissed her, John concentrated on her, her scent, her hair, her body. Her skin was so soft... He realized he was trying to prove himself to himself. _Maybe it had been only a one time thing... _But he ignored it and allowed his body to take over.

Ella loved the feel of his body weighing over hers and how she felt herself melt under his hands. _He's such a nice guy, we get along _so_ well... And he's soo good, oh..._

...

Sherlock couldn't resist any longer. He needed to see an old acquaintance of his. One that he hadn't seen in a long time. He knew through his homeless network that the man was still around. It took a few inquiries to find out where his new spot was, but an hour later he was facing him again. This oblivion was preferable to the tumult inside his brain. Tonight, _this_ was the emergency.

...

It was past midnight by the time the taxi dropped him at Baker Street. He looked up and noticed the lights were out. This didn't bode well. If Sherlock was out, where could he be? A new case? He walked in, went upstairs to the sitting room and turned on the light.

His heart sank.


	10. Caving in

Note: Don't laugh, but I knew next to nothing about drugs and had to actually do research to write this chapter. Then I started getting adds about re-hab clinics... Lol.

**10**.** Caving in**

'Sherlock!'

He ran to his side. Sherlock was laying on the sofa, shirtless, with his gown crumpled underneath him. His eyes were partially open, but he did not seem to be conscious. His skin was clammy and paler than usual, the hair around his face wet. John knew immediately what this was. Sherlock had finally caved in! _I knew I should've stayed home tonight!_ He lifted an eyelid and called his name again. The pupils did not respond to light, but remained tiny pin pricks. His breathing was slow and weak. John was desperately trying to think. He checked for pulse and it was also weak. He turned Sherlock's arms, looking for needle marks and found one. _So possibly morphine, heroin or cocaine!_ Heturned him sideways in case he vomited, to avoid asphyxiation.

Frantic, John called for an ambulance, constantly checking Sherlock's breathing and pulse, always calling his name. He also looked for the syringe; the hospital might need to know what he had taken. He found it under the sofa and noted that the syringe itself was an antique, made out of glass, with a huge needle. It seemed like ages before the ambulance finally arrived. He felt helpless and useless. The only thing that kept him from despairing was the knowledge that he needed to stay in control in order to help Sherlock. He tried to push away thoughts of life without him. That would be unthinkable. He blinked away the threatening tears and continued monitoring his pulse and breathing.

...

He called Mycroft from the ambulance. When the elder Holmes arrived, it was almost one in the morning. The man looked tired, but still impecably well dressed. He seemed to be his usual unflappable self, but there was definitely a hard edge in his eyes. John was sitting bent forward, with his elbows on his thighs, palms together, staring down at the floor. He was trying to control his shaking hands.

'What happened?' Mycroft asked quietly, sitting down next to him.

'I left on a date. He was very hyper, and in such an alarming state that I almost canceled it. He said he'd be fine and told me to go. I came home around midnight and found him unconscious. I called for help and called you once we were in the ambulance. There was a needle mark on his arm, so I suspect morphine, heroin or cocaine. I found the syringe and gave it to them. What did he take when he used drugs?'

'Mainly morphine and sometimes cocaine. He took morphine whenever his brain had too much energy, but nothing to occupy it with. This was the only way he had found to stop it.' Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. 'I was hopeful that he was over it. What was the trigger? There must have been something more extreme than usual. Has he been under pressure or without cases for long?'

'Nothing out of the ordinary. It's been only a couple of days days since his last case.' After a pause, he added 'I had noticed though, he has been acting a bit different lately.'

'How so?'

'Subdued. I'd say almost as if he were sad. I feel awful, I should've known! To be honest, I'm afraid I've been too distracted with the beginnings of a new relationship. So it took me a while to realize he hadn't even been bored between the last couple of cases. Today was the first day he complained about it.' After another pause he remembered, 'he didn't say he was bored, though. Only that he needed a case or his brain would explode.'

Mycroft paused to think. 'Just like old times,' he sighed tiredly after a while. He was visibly upset (visibly for him). He also bent forward with his elbows over his thighs, his fingertips together in front of his mouth. _Apparently a Holmes trait_, thought John.

'Once Sherlock is stable, I would like to move him to our family home, with our family physician.' He straightened up, shaking his head. 'But I know he'd only run away. Unless I keep him under guard, which would most definitely make him run away.'

'Mycroft, I can look after him at home. I'll take time off work next week, for however long he needs care.'

'I know, John. I appreciate it. I'm grateful that he has you as a friend. Please let me know if you need anything.'

John didn't know what to say. That was as emotional as Mycroft would ever be. But he understood he had meant it. He looked away, embarrassed.

After about an hour wait, a doctor came in to tell them they had been pumping Sherlock with Naloxone to counteract the effects of the morphine. According to the doctor, hadn't Sherlock been brought in when he was, he could've died of respiratory depression. He was coming out of it, and his vitals were getting back to normal. They'd be able to see him soon. 'Soon', or rather, forty minutes later, they were taken to see Sherlock.

He still looked very pale, had dark circles under his eyes and looked small, weak and... embarrassed. His eyes flitted up, then down again when they walked in. He turned his head away from them and closed his eyes, a petulant tilt in his chin.

'Sherlock, you scared us! Are you all right?' John spoke relieved. He wanted to say much more, but held himself because of Mycroft's presence.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. 'Mycroft, go away,' he said flatly.

'Sherlock.' That was all Mycroft said. John couldn't tell what he had meant it to convey, as there was no inflection. He had expected Mycroft to show anger or disdain, but was surprised with the lack of emotions in this very instant. Whatever it was, both brothers seemed to have understood each other.

John broke the awkward silence that followed. 'The doctor said they'll keep you overnight, but that you should be able to go home tomorrow. No, don't protest. You are too weak to move. Please, Sherlock. Try to get some rest tonight.'

Sherlock met his eyes but quickly looked away, asking flatly, 'Are you going home?'

'Only if you want me to.'

'Stay?', he said quietly, still avoiding eye contact.

John guessed Sherlock was acting like this because of his brother's presence in the room. He tried to talk in a neutral tone, but John knew him well enough to recognize the need for reassurance in his eyes. 'Of course, Sherlock! I just don't think I'm allowed in the room, though.'

Mycroft had watched the exchange impassively. At this, he sprang into action. 'I'll go arrange for a private room that accommodates a guest. There will be no issues with Sherlock's doctor staying in the room. I'll get someone to bring you extra clothes.' He swept out of the room, already pulling out his phone. _He knows_, Sherlock thought closing his eyes, disgusted at himself for showing weakness in front of his brother.

John approached the bed. 'Sherlock... I'm sorry. I should've stayed home. I felt something bad was going to happen.' He touched his friend's shoulder. Sherlock recoiled slightly in surprise, opening his eyes. 'If there's anything you need, please tell me. Now and at any other time. Why didn't you text me? I would've come home. I wish you'd trust me.'

He gave him a penetrating stare. 'I do trust you, John.'

John couldn't think of what to say, so he just gave him a small smile and a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. Sherlock looked away again. 'I didn't mean to give you a fright. I was mislead about the substance's purity and consequently misjudged my dosage.'

Even in the private room, John only got a few hours of sleep. The nurses came in constantly, so he couldn't really relax. Sherlock seemed to have slept, with all the different drugs battling over him.


	11. Recovery

**11**.** Recovery**

John braced himself for what was coming. He knew that the withdrawal symptoms would come, despite Sherlock being clean for a few years. The next week Sherlock accepted whatever John would tell him to do. He was still embarrassed for having shown weakness, and mortified that John had seen him in such an undignified state.

Sherlock also knew very well what was to come. He hated that John would see this too. Mrs. Hudson had been away that weekend, but once she learned what had happened, she teamed up with John in taking care and fretting over him. Mycroft kept in touch with John.

The first five days were the worst. With the diarrhoea, loss of appetite and nausea, it was doubly difficult to keep Sherlock hydrated and have him eat properly. It also didn't help that one of the withdrawal symptoms was insomnia. All this just made Sherlock more 'Sherlock' than ever. But what gave John a fright were the chills alternating with the flushing and sweating, along with the tremors and accelerated heart rate. Even though these symptoms were not life threatening, it was still quite alarming to see him like that.

Unfortunately for John, mood swings, depression and irritability were also par for the course. Yet, he tried his best to stay calm and be the doctor he needed to be. He knew it was just a matter of time for Sherlock to become bored. They didn't tell Lestrade about the overdose and he was sure Mycroft had used his influence to hush the whole episode. Had Lestrade known, Sherlock would surely be barred from consulting. John prayed no new cases came before Sherlock recovered. He would have insisted taking on the cases, even if he were still sick. John planned to tell Lestrade Sherlock had the flu and was in no condition to help if called.

During those days, sometimes John would grab his phone and head upstairs. Sherlock still seemed sad, but as depression was another withdrawal symptom, John didn't think it was anything out of the ordinary.

...

Halfway through the second week, Sherlock was getting predictably bored, but John felt confident the worst of the crisis was over. It had been twelve days since that terrible night and his mood seemed 'improved' too. Sherlock being bored seemed more normal and preferable after what they've been through the previous week.

This week Ella had a day off Wednesday, so they met during the day. John still hesitated leaving Sherlock alone, so he asked Mrs. Hudson to ostensibly cook a meal for Sherlock in their flat, to give her an excuse to stay with him. John promised he wouldn't be gone for long, only a couple of hours. He begged Sherlock to text him if anything happened.

He wasn't looking forward to meeting her. He asked if he could come to her place so they could talk, offering to bring some takeaway for lunch. He had told her about Sherlock's past drug issues earlier on, so she had been supportive and understanding during his vigil over Sherlock. She understood that John didn't want to leave him alone for very long today.

Mainly, he wanted to straighten things up with her. Their last date had ended poorly. Once again, images of Sherlock had danced in his eyes as he kissed her. So he had stopped and they had a long talk that night. He didn't go into details then, as he was still trying to sort things out inside his head, but the romance had come to a halt. Having taken time off work to take care of Sherlock and seeing him in that degraded state gave John a chance to think a lot and a lot to think about. He could have died that night if John had stayed at Ella's. He knew Sherlock needed him; if anything, to keep him safe from his own self destructive tendencies. And John's place was by his side.

He really liked Ella. But he had chosen Sherlock once again.

...

It pained Ella that things didn't work out between them. She cared for him, a lot. She couldn't imagine never talking to him again, though. In the week and a half that John had spent taking care of Sherlock, she had thought a lot about him and their relationship. He was very honest with her, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized she liked him as a friend. He was the perfect guy to fall in love with. Yet, she hadn't. If John had not put on the brakes when he did, the result would still have been the same, it would only have taken them longer to get there.

…...

He had been quite irritated with Mrs. Hudson. He knew John had conspired with her so she'd keep watching him and resented it. She cooked this elaborate meal for him in their flat and chatted non-stop. He was a bit curt with her, but she used her best angry mother tone to keep him in line. Yet, despite himself, he did enjoy the home cooked meal. Something about all the smells that permeated the flat while she was cooking made his brain actually look forward to eating the food, especially after last week's liquid diet. She even insisted in baking some biscuits for afters and scones for breakfast tomorrow. She was just taking the scones out of the oven when John arrived.

'You're home early,' Sherlock said, trying to hide his relief. He noticed John showed no signs of physical entanglements today. His hair looked exactly the same as when he had left, maybe just a bit windswept. His lips were not chapped, his clothes not rumpled. And no foreign smells coming from him. He frowned to himself.

'I told you I wouldn't be gone for long. Mrs. Hudson, you made biscuits too?' he added, sniffing the delicious smells. 'You are an angel!', he kissed her cheek in gratitude.

'Oh, that's really nothing dear, I got carried away,' she giggled. 'I wanted to make something you could both have tomorrow for breakfast too. This young man here ate only a very small portion of his food, so I thought I'd appeal to his sweet tooth.'

'Mrs. Hudson, I ate a large piece of the Shepherd's Pie!' Sherlock protested.

'I hope he behaved and didn't give you a hard time.'

'Oh, he tried. But I put him in his place,' she laughed. 'So, how was your date, John?'

'Oh. Eh, well, I... Ella and I agreed to take a break.'

Sherlock perked up at that. 'You broke up?'

John sighed and shook his head. He didn't want to say it like that. 'We're taking a break,' he repeated.

'Oh, so _she _ broke up with you,' Sherlock read in his answer.

'Sherlock!' Mrs. Hudson chided.

'No. We're just. Taking. A break. That's all. And I don't want to discuss it right now.'

'Oh, John,' Mrs. Hudson pouted, 'you were doing so well. I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry too.'

'But rest assured, "the best is yet to come". If it's meant to be with Ella, things will sort themselves out. If it's not meant to be, someone better will come along,' she patted his arm consolingly. 'Well, I'm done with the baking, so I'm going to head down and catch up on my afternoon telly. Enjoy the biscuits and scones, boys!'

'Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,' they replied in unison.

There was a brief pause. 'So what did she-'

'No Sherlock. I said I _don't_ want to talk about it.'

….

On the following day things were pretty calm. Sherlock said he actually slept well and even had some of the scones for breakfast, which delighted Mrs. Hudson. They had the leftovers for lunch and kept in companionable silence for most of the day. Sherlock worked on his laptop (for a change) and John read the papers, a book, caught up with his medical journals, updated the blog and watched a movie. John was thankful that Sherlock wasn't irritated and bored today.

'Hey, Sherlock. Would you like to get out of the flat for a bit? Let's go to Angelo's and get some dinner.'

His face lit up and, surprisingly, he accepted it. He ate well that night.

…..

Sherlock's mood had seemed so much improved the previous night, that in the morning John felt comfortable leaving the flat for a quick run before breakfast. He did his exercise routine and it felt great.

He was in the shower when the call came. Sherlock banged loudly at the door and yelled excitedly 'John! Hurry! Case! Now!'

Frustrated, he debated about finishing his shower properly, but he knew this would only make Sherlock impatient and go alone. He cursed, rinsed quickly and tried to dry himself off fast and get dressed even faster. He came downstairs at a run, sweating, holding his socks and shoes, but Sherlock was already outside, looking for a taxi. He barely made it into the car as it sped away. He brushed his feet and put his socks and shoes on as they rode.

...

Author's note: I just couldn't have Ella angry at John... Hey, it's possible to remain friends with your exes. Didn't work for me, but I have some friends that are saints, who did just that. Many times over. I bow to them.


	12. A new Case

Note: All right, here we go. I tried to write an honest-to-good case. Please review, that would make me so happy! Thanks!

**12. A new case**

This time, they didn't go to a crime scene, but to the Yard.

'Sherlock! Had I known we'd be coming here, I would've finished my shower!' he yelled, ticked off.

He didn't get a reply and had to pay the cabbie, then hurry up after Sherlock.

As they walked into Lestrade's office, the Inspector greeted them, then summoned Williams. 'I'll let him tell you what's going on. Have a seat.'

Williams walked in holding three thick folders and John was surprised at how changed he looked. He was pale, had deep dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and seemed on the verge of being sick. Lestrade gave him a little nod. He took a deep breath, putting the folders down as if they weighed a ton.

'Last Sunday we got a call around two am, seemingly a mugging gone wrong-'

'Last _Sunday_?!' Sherlock fumed. 'Had you called me, I could've saved you time!'

Williams paused and looked down. He swallowed hard and seemed to struggle as if trying not to be sick.

'They were Williams' friends,' Lestrade said, to give him time. 'He knew both victims.' John winced.

He took a deep breath and continued. 'Victims were Carl (he paused to swallow) Preston, 27 and Jack Collins, 28. Stabbed multiple times, some defensive wounds on the hands and arms. They had been at a nightclub that evening, leaving around midnight. They were found in an alley near the nightclub, which is consistent with the post mortem, that established the time of death between 12:00 and 2:00.' He took a deep breath.

'This was a messy job. There was blood splattering all around the crime scene, and a few footprints smeared with their blood. The footprints have an unusual sole, as you can see in the photographs,' he handed a stack to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the photos and John leaned in to look at them too. It showed a few partial prints of feet, clad in something that had a pattern of small dots. Several other photos showed a bit more of the prints, then the track disappeared.

'According to forensics, Carl was stabbed first, taking both of them by surprise. This allowed the killer to concentrate on Jack. Jack had defensive wounds on his hands and arms. Once Jack was... gone' Williams voice trembled and was barely audible at the last word, 'the killer turned back to Carl and finished the job.' He paused and took a deep breath.

'They were a happy couple, great guys, with a large group of friends and loving families. Carl was a lawyer and Jack was a programmer. There were no wallets or watches or jewellery, which seemed to support the mugging theory. But, being that they were a gay couple, it reminded me of a past case. I wasn't involved in these investigations,' he indicated the other folders, 'but I had read about one of them in the papers. So on a hunch I searched for more cases involving gay couples and so far I found these two.'

He pointed to the top file, motioning Sherlock to take it. 'Two months ago, Paul Davidson, 46 and James Lucas Santori, 39, had left a dinner party around ten in the evening on a Saturday and were found dead at home, two days later, when they didn't show up for work. They were shot at close range, in their bed, sometime between 11 and 1 in the morning, same night as the dinner. No apparent motive. Inquiries at the time didn't go anywhere.'

'Why wasn't I called?' Sherlock chided Lestrade, annoyed at the missed opportunity.

'Hey, I wasn't part of this case either,' the D.I. protested.

Dissatisfied with the answer, Sherlock turned back to Williams.

'Interviews show they had been together for fifteen years, were very loving towards each other, led a quiet life, pretty much kept to themselves, no known enemies. Davidson was a construction worker and Santori worked at a bank. As far as Santori's brother could tell, nothing was taken from the house. Santori had life insurance with his work, but the brother, who inherited it, had a firm alibi. He's an airline pilot and that weekend he had flown to Indonesia. Plus, he's in good financial shape, so no motive there. Their deaths just seem more like an execution.'

'And your friends? How long had they been together?' Sherlock asked.

'They had been together for... about three years, I think.'

'Did they also keep to themselves?'

'No. They were extremely outgoing, loved to go dancing, volunteered at charities, were into sports - rowing, kayaking.'

He gestured to the remaining folder. 'Second case, about three weeks after the first. Another couple. Vincent Parker Taylor, 18, and Sidney Fergusen, 19, were found dead at an abandoned warehouse, dangling from a beam. At the time it was thought of as a suicide pact, despite the fact that there was no note. According to family and friends, that was not possible. They were not depressed, on the contrary, seemed very happy. Both families had been very supportive, so both young men were openly gay and had just started their relationship. Sidney was planning on attending University and Vincent worked with his dad, who's a restaurant owner. He was training to be a chef. Vincent was due at his dad's restaurant that evening, being a busy time on a weekend, so both young men had gone out on a date during the day. They met at 11 in the morning at Vincent's house and never made it back. It was a Saturday evening, time of death between 8 and 10.'

'I see. No motives, no patterns in the victims' age, appearance, social group or choice of weapon. But for the fact that they were all very openly gay couples, and that they all died on a Saturday night.'

'Exactly. No CCTV cameras in the areas where the bodies were found. Nothing to connect the victims directly. They lived and worked in different parts of town, no common friends as far as we can tell.'

Sherlock's eyes glinted with the excitement of the hunt. John braced himself, hoping he wouldn't say something totally inappropriate, for Williams' sake (Sherlock loved cases with serial killers). But thankfully, this time he didn't. 'I need to see their places and the crime scenes, in all three cases. I also need these files.'

'The first case, being that it's dated from two months ago, was most likely to be unavailable.' Lestrade added. 'So I called Santori's brother and their house has been sold. All we have are the SOCO's pictures, and most of them, of the crime scene itself.'

Sherlock hissed. He stood up and paced. Then he spun, 'How about their belongings?'

'I'll call and ask.'

Sherlock nodded.

'As for the second case, they were so young that they still lived with their families. So both sets of parents will still have their belongings,' Lestrade continued.

'I can drive you both to these addresses if you like,' Williams offered.

'No. Give me the addresses and I'll go.'

'No, Sherlock,' Lestrade said. 'I won't let you barge in the grieving families without an escort. Williams will take you in his car. It's unmarked, not a police car.'

Sherlock was furious and about to say something, but John tapped his arm and gave him a warning look. John meant it to convey _'Do you want an interesting case or not?' _To Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock huffed, then after a pause, looked back at him, nodded and looked away in disgust. _John really has a touch with Sherlock_, Lestrade thought. He couldn't imagine how, but was grateful for that. John always kept Sherlock a bit more under control.

...

They started with the most recent case, crime scene first, then their flat. Williams was positively green. As Sherlock ran inside, John told Williams he was sorry for his friends and suggested he wait outside. The Sergeant thanked him, but said he'd rather stay. 'It's just hard to be here without them. I've been here many times, and I have good memories of past dinners, parties, birthdays.'

Next was the young couple's crime scene, followed by both set of parents' houses. Lestrade had called ahead so they were expected. As they drove, John warned Sherlock not to say anything, but only to look at their rooms, observe and get out. By the time they were done, Sidney's mum had fainted, and Vincent's dad had brandished a cooking knife at Sherlock. Both Williams and John held the grieving man and calmed him down. Lestrade's family liaisons would have a lot of patching up to do...

Then they went to one of the first victim's brother, Edward Santori, the only surviving relative. He still had some of their belongings. Books, music and collectibles, mainly. A lot of pictures, some cooking utensils, some smaller pieces of furniture, all stacked in his basement. 'I haven't had the energy to go through them yet,' he said with great sadness. Sherlock asked to take the pictures with him, so he could go over them, but looked through all the other boxes.

By the time they made it back to 221B it was late in the evening.

...

Sherlock's mind was racing with all the stimulus of the day.

John was still under the sad spell of seeing the families' grief, as well as Sergeant Williams'. _They have no more privacy now that they've become victims_, he thought. To him, this was always the hardest part of working with Sherlock: the grief of the survivors.

He longed for someone to talk to. He called Ella. They had agreed to take a break, but both liked each other's company, and wanted to keep their friendship. He told her a bit about the case, without too many details. She could tell that he was shaken and upset. It did feel good to talk to her. She was always... straightforward, calm, collected. Nothing seemed to shock her. _I guess working in A&E helps_. He regretted that it was so messed up. She _was _ perfect for him.

After showering again (he had felt itchy the whole day, with dried soap on his skin), he came down to get something to eat. He wasn't hungry, but knew he had to try to eat something. He had only had a coffee - a bad one, at the Yard the whole day. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, thinking. This time he didn't notice John, and his eyes were darting all over, as if he were looking again at all the places they had been today. John looked in the fridge and found some leftovers from the past couple of days, amidst some unidentified and suspicious containers. He heated some for himself, made tea for both of them. _Given he doesn't even know I'm here, I'll just make him some tea. And he needs water too. Maybe a cold sandwich?_ He put a mug, a tall glass of water and a plate with a wrapped sandwich next to Sherlock. Then he sat in his chair and ate, occasionally looking at his friend. He knew that, even if Sherlock felt his stare, he would assume it was because John was watching for the moment something came to him. A clue, something someone had missed. So for now he could safely watch him.

As he had never been attracted to guys before, he had never thought of sex with men. If Sherlock were to ever reciprocate, what then? Could he really do that? Oh, he could imagine touching his skin, his face, even kissing. But anything further? He didn't know. _Where does that leave me? Perpetually alone? Sherlock is just not interested in relationships. What is this that I feel then, attraction, lust, love? _Then he remembered their last ordeal. He reminded himself of what he needed to be to keep Sherlock safe. _He needs my friendship. Nothing more. Nothing less. He's my best friend. That's all._

Eventually he dozed off in his chair. When he woke up, Sherlock had all the files open, pictures hanging on the smiley face's wall, a map showing the places where the victims had been found, where they had lived and worked, papers scattered all over every possible surface. He was standing up facing the pictures, with arms crossed, one hand touching his lips. John got up, stretched, yawned, and decided to go to bed. He didn't say goodnight because he was sure Sherlock was not completely there, but lost inside his own mind. He was standing very still, in contrast with his brilliant and feverish brain. But as he started for the door, he heard Sherlock say 'Good night, John. And thanks for the tea and sandwich.' He turned around and saw that Sherlock hadn't turned or moved, but both plate and mug were empty. He had drunk half of the water. That was highly unusual for Sherlock, but John smiled to himself and said good night.


	13. Tight jeans

**13. Tight jeans**

When John came down next morning, Sherlock seemed in good spirits. He was typing with great speed into John's laptop (_Bloody Hell! I need another password again!_), seemingly looking at maps and addresses. He had several windows open on screen and kept jumping between them.

'I have a suspect.' He said without preamble, with a big grin.

'Well, good! Good morning to you too.' He waited. 'Well?'

'Well, let's have breakfast. Then we're going shopping.'

'Shopping? What for?'

'Books, John!'

That was all he got. He was curious, but that was Sherlock, keeping all inside his head and being annoyingly smug about it. Being in great spirits, he even ate a small breakfast, not too much (so not to slow his brain). Sherlock promised there was no hurry today, the bookshop wouldn't open until 11 anyway, so John would have enough time to shower and shave. When John was halfway through his breakfast, Sherlock started to the bathroom to shower and get ready. As he walked away he said loudly 'And John, do wear one of your new jeans! And your black shoes. And the tightest t-shirt you own.'

'What? Why?'

But Sherlock was already in the bathroom.

_Tightest T-shirt? The closest thing I have are some white undershirts... That'll have to do._

When John walked into the sitting room he was quite surprised. He had never seen Sherlock in jeans, didn't even know he owned a pair. But not only that, they were very tight jeans. They emphasized his long legs and small waist. He was also wearing a slim fit blue polo shirt that not only made his eyes bluer, it also made his shoulders look wider. He looked... sexy.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed annoyed. 'John! Do you call this tight?'

'I don't own many t-shirts, Sherlock! I have mostly work shirts,' he protested.

Sherlock huffed and walked towards his room, and after a while came back, saying 'Here! Try this one!'

'Sherlock! This is too small, there's no way it'll fit me!'

'It'll stretch, just put it on!'

Sherlock was looking at him with great impatience, so he modestly turned around, stripped and put the bright green t-shirt as quickly as he could. He disliked when people could see his scars. When he turned back, Sherlock had an odd look on his face. 'It's too tight! I look ridiculous!'

'No', he replied in a low voice, 'that's perfect. We're going undercover.'

John let his head hang back. _Good Lord, I should've known._

...

Given the place's address and the time, it was very convenient to take the tube. John was thankful for it being Saturday morning, with not as many people around. He felt self conscious, as if everybody were staring at him. Well, some women (and some men, it seemed) did seem to be checking him out.

Once they were back on the street, Sherlock said 'Now we need some books. Follow my lead. You are my boyfriend.'

John stopped dead, staring at Sherlock's back, who continued walking. 'Wait!' Sher-' But his friend had already entered the bookshop nearby, 'Quinlan's Books'. Then peeking out again, he called in a singsong voice 'Come on, John!' John thought he should have seen this coming, given the nature of this case. Yet, he was still in shock at Sherlock's words. He sighed and walked in, resigned.

The door had a little bell that alerted the proprietor someone had just come in. It was a small shop that sold used books, narrow but deep. There were three tight aisles, with signs identifying the subjects. It was charming and cozy, lots of wood shelves, but a little run down. The bookshelves weren't very high, so the owner could see the entire shop from where he stood. As John walked in, he heard a strange voice say 'Come here John, I think I see something you'll like...' He sounded... different. As he looked up, he felt himself colour. Sherlock was holding up an old photography book showing the famous Eadweard Muybridge's sequences of movements with a very muscular and very nude man walking up some stairs in one page, and two naked men wrestling on the other. Sherlock was grinning. Given that the counter where the store owner stood was next to the door, he too saw the book. The man looked intimidating. He was a big guy with his head shaved bald, with a sour look on his face.

'Oh, come on, no need to be embarrassed, I know you like it!' He walked towards Sherlock and before he knew it, the book was in his hands. Sherlock stood close, pressing their arms together, flipping the pages and cooing over the photos, especially the ones with men. Then he walked away to peruse some more. John didn't know what to do, then he noticed the man behind the counter watching him. He tried to smile, embarrassed, but the man looked away, towards Sherlock, who continued to pick and point at other books. Thankfully, nothing as embarrassing, thought John.

John tried to keep his mind on the case, and used this opportunity to observe the man discreetly. He was in his fifties, a former athlete going to seed, still somewhat strong. There was a photo of his younger self and friends taped to the wall next to the till. John noticed there were only men in the picture, all bulky and very muscular. He frowned. Was this man also gay? He didn't look like it, _but then again, what do I know? I, of all people..._

Sherlock called him again and this time, held open an art book with a series of pictures of Michelangelo's David. John wanted to disappear under the floor as Sherlock pointed at the back side of the sculpture saying 'His is just like yours,' smiling devilishly. After this, he continued to keep really close to John, always rubbing arms or touching him. A hand on his shoulder, a hand on his back to guide him. Then, a couple of aisles from the proprietor, Sherlock made him turn around so they were facing each other. They were further down so the man (presumably, Mr. Quinlan) couldn't see John's face, only Sherlock's, but still close enough to be heard. Sherlock placed his forearms over John's shoulders, crossing the wrists behind his head.

John had gone still. With hooded eyes and a slight smile in his lips, Sherlock said 'Sweetie, today is our anniversary. I'll get those books for you. Then tonight we can go to Van Gogh's for dinner to celebrate. But there's only one thing I want. Would you take me out to dance tonight?'

John was a bit shocked with the whole thing and instinctively almost pulled away. But he was held firmly in place by the pressure of Sherlock's arms over his shoulders. Hastily, Sherlock added 'I know, I know. You don't like it very much, but it's been ages since we danced. Can we _please_ go to Raw? I promise we'll only stay until eleven tonight!'

He still couldn't think of all this as a conversation that Sherlock would be having with him. His eyes were huge. Sherlock looked at him intensely, and, for good measure, stepped lightly onto his foot. _Oh, this is when I say yes, I suppose!_ 'Yes!' he said, a little too quickly and awkwardly.

Sherlock relaxed, smiled, then, as he moved towards John's ear, said in a lower voice (that still carried in the empty shop) huskily, 'Thanks, Love. Then I'll take you home and we'll celebrate...'

Instinctively, John grabbed his friend's arms and pushed him away, staring at him in disbelief. Sherlock smiled and turned away, so he let go of his arms. Sherlock grabbed the art book, walked back to the first aisle, picked up the photography book and went to buy them. After that, he returned to where John was still standing and said it was time to go, keeping a hand on his back. Cheerfully, he thanked the man when they were at the door. John thanked him too, still blushing furiously.

Once outside he had to hurry a bit to catch up with Sherlock. He was too appalled and embarrassed to speak. Only a few blocks later he managed to get some words out.

'Did you _have _ to do all that? At the bookshop?' he hissed quietly, making Sherlock stop walking.

'Yes!' he smiled. 'For a second I thought you were too stunned to play along, but it turned out better than I had expected. Well done!'

'Well, I could tell where things were heading once you said "undercover". But it would've helped if you had told me what you were going to do first!'

'John, you wouldn't have acted convincingly if you knew. This worked out perfectly. I was the flamboyant one and you the shy one, embarrassed about public displays of affection. This way you stayed in character, all I said was a surprise to you, as it should've been, and not a rehearsed dialog. No offence, but you're not always a good actor under pressure.'

John was mortified. He took a deep breath. It was impossible to make him see how aggravating this had been.

'Are you sure it's him?' Sherlock just merely glared, implying this was an insulting question. 'Okay, _how_ can you be sure? He only looked angry to me, but that doesn't mean anything. He could've just been having a bad day.'

Sherlock looked up to the sky in frustration. 'John, all the clues were there in front of you. Didn't you see?'

John hated when Sherlock did this, it was infuriating. He took a deep breath and said, 'Just enlighten me, please?'

'John, listen, I have to run some errands, I should be back at the flat in a few hours. We'll talk once I get back,' Sherlock said, already looking for a taxi. 'Would you call the restaurant and make a reservation? I suggest a late dinner, perhaps 8:30?'

'So... back there, were you serious about "tonight's plans"?'

'Of course John! We'll have him once he comes after us.'

'Christ Sherlock, I wish you'd at least consult me before offering us as bait!'

Sherlock flagged a taxi and the driver nodded, making an illegal turn.

'Wait, I'll go with you! What errands?'

'Don't worry John, I'm not doing anything dangerous for now.'

'Are you going back to the bookshop?'

'No. Like I said, nothing dangerous. Don't worry.'

'Shouldn't we call Lestrade?'

Sherlock paused with the door open. 'And tell him what? We have nothing that they can use as evidence to get a warrant, not even for surveillance. All is very clear and self-evident, but nothing that would stand in court. What we need is to collect evidence tonight, when he comes after us.'

'And how do you plan to collect it?'

'That's my current errand for now. I do have to go, I don't have much time right now. We'll talk more once I'm back, I promise.' By the end of that sentence he handed John the carrier bag, climbed in and shut the door.

...

Sherlock had enjoyed seeing John in that outfit. It really showcased his chest and arms. John wasn't overly muscular, just enough to look... nice, in great shape. Also, it was the first time Sherlock had seen John's torso, as well as his scar. It had taken him off guard; John was always self conscious about it and avoided being shirtless. The evidence of such violence and suffering in his body was quite shocking to see. It made him think of what it had cost John to overcome such an ordeal. And he had seen only the exit wound.

He thought that John's blushing had been appropriate for their acting, as if he had been embarrassed of PDA. He was probably protesting all that time in his head 'I'm not gay!' Thankfully, John kept the ruse. Or, at least, kept from protesting aloud. He looked cute when he blushed, it made him look boyish, younger. For his part, as he kept touching John, Sherlock had felt warm. When they went through the arms over shoulders 'talk', he had the excuse to really look at him the way he'd like to, deeply into those eyes, which looked so dark blue with a touch of green in the shop. He could still feel John's hands imprinted in his arms. The surprising strength in that grip, being so close and intimate like this had made him aroused (especially with the images that had flashed in his mind of the two of them 'celebrating')... The proprietor noticed that too (with clear disgust) when he had gone to pay for the books, thanks to those infernally tight jeans. That had been good timing, it ensured that the man would most definitely come after them. Luckily, their bodies hadn't touched and John was too embarrassed to look anywhere else but straight ahead and didn't see it. Then he felt again that need. He wished he could've touched him more. He _did_ want to take John home and... _Not now. The case. The case._

...

When John got home he was still embarrassed. He had had another first. He thought Sherlock looked sexy! He still remembered all the touching, the heat of his flatmate's body, his scent. So different. When he had leaned over to show one of the books, he felt a brush of Sherlock's curls against his forehead. They were soft. _Just as soft as Ella's..._ He shook his head to cut off that train of thought.

He had been blushing the whole time at the bookshop. He felt very exposed under Sherlock's intense gaze, fearing he would read everything in his face. Actually, not just intense. _Smouldering _ would've been more accurate, screaming of promises that he knew Sherlock would never make. Had he not known what a good actor Sherlock could be, he would've made a fool of himself. He would have accepted the unspoken offer in his eyes.

Then he remembered the cheeky remark about his arse. _ Bastard! And what was the point of dressing up like this anyway? Gay men don't necessarily wear tight clothes._ He felt a bit ridiculous in that ultra tight t-shirt and pulled it over his head._ This t-shirt smells just like Sherlock_, he realized. Sherlock hadn't worn it, it was clean, but it held the smells from his bedroom. He couldn't resist and brought it up to his face. He inhaled deeply a couple of times, eyes closed. Now it smelled like a combination of them both, something that fuelled his imagination. _Both of our smells together._ Then he came to his senses and pushed it away, eyes wide.

_I need to keep in mind we are on a case. We are chasing a potential serial killer. Who may attempt to kill us tonight!_ He froze at this thought, his stomach dropping. Remembering this alarmed him. This was serious, he needed to stay alert and focused. Not the time to embark on fantasies. He felt fear.

_Sherlock won't like this._ He searched in his wallet for a business card, then pulled out his phone.

...

Sherlock could hear John in his room upstairs when he returned. _He must still be upset about the whole thing. _ _Honestly, I don't know why he cares so much about what people think of us, especially strangers. _ Then visions of his friend in his well fitting clothes, looking so handsome for his dates, his pleasure at that soft bite Ella gave him came back. And he thought of today, having his arms over his shoulders and staring into his blue eyes. The feel of his body everywhere he had touched. Seeing him undressing. The surprising strength in John's grip when he had pushed him away... All this came back to him in a rush. Quietly, he went straight to his bedroom. _This will help me concentrate tonight_, he justified himself. He would have to be quiet. It would most certainly be quick.

Sherlock wanted to be done and go shower before John came back downstairs. Unfortunately, John had heard him returning to the flat.

John had been cleaning his gun while Sherlock was away, to take his mind from all the worry and fear. When he heard a few noises downstairs, he stopped and soon was knocking at Sherlock's bedroom door. Sherlock cursed under his breath, but said aloud 'Just a minute!' He took a few deep breaths to compose himself, threw in his pyjama bottoms, a fluffed up gown and went out.

John had stepped back into the sitting room, waiting. 'Sherlock, we need to talk about tonight.' As he turned around he noticed Sherlock's cheeks were flushed and his forehead was shiny with sweat. He paused, incredulous. 'What have you done?'

Sherlock froze and remained silent, stunned.

'What were you doing with your door locked?'

He turned away to avoid eye contact.

'Did you take anything? Answer me! Of all days, you can't do this before facing a potential serial killer! Have you gone mad?' He sounded angrier and angrier as each sentence came out.

_Oh, he thought I was taking drugs!_ Relieved, he drew himself up, turned around and denied it. John didn't seem to believe him, so he offered his arms for inspection. John got close and narrowed his eyes, checking also for pinprick pupils. He didn't have needle marks and his pupils were responsive to light. In fact, they were very dilated. His pulse was elevated, and his forehead felt hot. _Okay, not morphine then. Of course, he wouldn't be taking downers. But could this be something else? His nostrils seem normal, not irritated, so he didn't snort cocaine. He might've smoked crack. Did his 'errands' mean a drug run? I should've followed him!_

'Oh, John! Please,' he huffed, pulling himself away. 'I would never impair myself during a case. I've only taken drugs in the past when I had nothing to occupy my mind with.' Before John could question his appearance again, he threw himself on his chair, brought his fingers together and added quickly, 'Now as for tonight: at 8:30 we'll be at Van Gogh's, where we'll have a lovely dinner date to celebrate our anniversary. The longer the better. Then we'll take a taxi and go straight to the nightclub, where we'll stay until eleven. Do wear your "nicer dating clothes", which will be suitable for the restaurant and credible as to the occasion. But make sure your shoes are comfortable. Wear a jacket so you can hide your gun behind your back.'

'How am I supposed to get into a nightclub with a gun?'

'They don't frisk people. Plus we'll be too well dressed. People trust and respect well dressed men. Don't worry.'

'Then what?'

'Then, at eleven we start "walking back home". We might not make it very far, but having good walking shoes will help. I suggested a late dinner to minimize your discomfort at the nightclub.'

'Are we really going to dance together?'

'I seriously doubt he will try to go inside to check on us. If he does, all we have to do is to be in front of each other. The music they play at nightclubs doesn't require touching, so you don't have to worry.'

He sighed, not looking forward to this evening.

'But what do you think he'll try to do? To us?'

'He has already used the mugging-gone-wrong method and he can't use his gun again. I'd say he'll try to abduct us at gunpoint and kill us somewhere else.'

John shivered and swallowed hard. 'And what is our plan?'

'We just won't let him. He has a gun, so do we. We are expecting him. And there are two of us. Remember, he'll try to avoid using the gun.'

That didn't help John feel better. It didn't sound like much of a plan.


	14. Close up and face to face

Note: In this story I found out how hard it is to write good mystery. I also found out it's very difficult to write a convincing villain. If you can, let me know how I did. Please review and thanks!

**14. Close up and face to face**

_'We'll have a lovely dinner date'_, were his words. John had mixed feelings about dressing up tonight. These were the clothes he had bought to go out with Ella. Part of him wanted to wear something else, so his brand new clothes wouldn't get damaged. Yet, as ridiculous as it sounded, if he were honest, he wanted to look good for Sherlock. As usual, he showered and shaved. After some thought, he decided on one of the new patterned shirts. The salesgirl had said the blue hues went well with his eyes. With the dark grey trousers and the black jacket he thought he looked sharp. He tried not to spend too much time in getting ready so as to not draw attention to the fact that he did care about how he looked.

Sherlock also decided to shower and shave. He had sweated a bit in all his doings today. And, well, he was going out with John. Fake or not, it was still a date, and he needed to show respect for the occasion. He decided to wear a dark red shirt with a black suit, a combination that always made him feel confident. _Tie? Mmm, no. There's the nightclub afterwards._

Sherlock liked the way John looked. That jacket really did wonders for him. He looked trim and that shirt made his eyes look almost navy blue. _He looks tense and a bit pale._ The shoes were a little old, but he had polished them recently to go out with Ella, so they didn't look too off. They looked comfortable, which was more important tonight. He watched as John checked his pistol again, then lifted his jacket and tucked it behind his back as he walked past Sherlock. He could see the new trousers hugged John's body in a flattering way.

As usual, Sherlock looked really nice, John thought. Not unlike his everyday attire. That particular type of red looked good against his pale skin. John felt tense and fearful. They could be facing a serial killer tonight. He didn't feel hungry; in fact, he felt a little sick to his stomach. He'd have to be on guard and stay focused the whole night. It helped to feel his gun on his back, but not that much.

They took a taxi and John felt self conscious, as if the driver had read them as a couple. At the restaurant, it didn't help when Sherlock, with that singsong voice, told the waiter to bring Champagne, 'It's our anniversary tonight!' The waiter congratulated them, but seemed to smirk as he walked away.

'Did you have to say that?' John hissed.

He leaned forward and replied so quietly, John had to strain to hear. 'We need to remain in character. What if we're being watched?'

Sherlock proceeded with his role, John trying to play along, but not so well. So Sherlock asked John about his experiences in Afghanistan to take his mind from all the worry. It gave John something else to think about, at least for the moment. Sherlock suggested a three course meal to slow the pace of the evening, for he imagined John was going to be a bit uncomfortable at the nightclub and wanted to minimize the time spent there. Neither drunk much of the Champagne. Sherlock didn't think the killer would attack between the two places, but still, it was best to remain alert. And he usually didn't drink anyway. John too wanted to stay alert and only had the first glass. He didn't care much for Champagne and thought this was a bit extravagant and a waste. Sherlock wasn't too concerned about the expenses, he said he'd put the dinner on Mycroft's card. John didn't want to know how.

Given that the restaurant was very upmarket, the portions were small. Considering how little Sherlock usually ate and how nauseated John felt, it worked well. Sherlock insisted on them sharing a piece of cake, to 'celebrate their anniversary', but in reality, more to drag the time spent at the restaurant. John was embarrassed, but Sherlock ended up just having a couple of bites, then pushing the plate away from himself. While Sherlock asked for coffee, John was starting to feel too sick to eat or drink anything else, now that this part of the evening was ending. Once outside, they immediately hopped into a taxi.

...

As they walked into the nightclub John's senses were brutally assaulted. The music was painfully loud (he immediately stuffed his ears with crumpled pieces of paper napkins and Sherlock imitated him), there were colourful strobe lights above the dance floor, and some couples were dancing, drinking, chatting or snogging. It wasn't very crowded yet, it was too early as far as nightclubs go. John went to the bar and got a pint for himself and a Ginger Ale for Sherlock. He caught himself thinking _just like in a regular date, here I am buying us drinks._ They sat on one of the high tables around the bar, overlooking the dance floor. It seemed like all the guys were eyeing Sherlock, then looking at him. Their faces showed envy, disbelief (which was quite insulting to him), and sometimes, an occasional knowing smile ('you lucky dog!'). Strangely, he was slightly proud to be the one with Sherlock. In their nice clothes, they really stood out. _You can look all you want, he's still going home with me, _he thought smugly, chuckling to himself.

'Why are you laughing?' Sherlock had leaned over to scream in his ear.

'Oh.' He jumped and cleared his throat. 'Nothing really,' he screamed back. 'I was just being silly. Nerves.'

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance, raising an eyebrow.

As he had predicted, John seemed very self conscious. He was alert, scanning the room for Quinlan, but getting uncomfortable as his eyes stumbled on the couples around them and, seeing what they were doing, averting his eyes.

At one point, Sherlock decided to remove his jacket and go dancing 'for good measure'. 'You can't take your jacket off, so I'll just go by myself and save you the embarrassment. I'll be fine dancing alone.' _Of course you'll be fine,_ John thought, _all the guys will be hitting on you and you won't be alone for long._ Sure enough, soon there were four attractive guys around Sherlock, flirting with him, dancing around him. One of them started backing up against him and another, getting close behind. Surprisingly, he was actually a good dancer, graceful as only Sherlock could be. Who also didn't seem to mind all the touching and the attention. He only played along, now sandwiched between the two guys, all swinging in unison. That started to make John uncomfortable.

A song or two later (they all sounded alike and blended into one another - the same non-stop thudding), the one from behind talked in Sherlock's ears, moving his hands to his friend's hips. But Sherlock smiled, shook his head and pointed at John. Looking in his direction, the guy had a look of disbelief on his face. Cross, John got up, went down to the dance floor and pulled Sherlock away by the arm, back to their seats.

'That's enough! Is it eleven yet?' he screamed in his friend's ears.

But Sherlock smiled and shook his head. 'Twenty more minutes!' he screamed back.

'You'll get yourself into trouble if you keep up like this!' The guy kept looking at them, disappointed. John just gave him a dirty look and the man finally moved on.

Eventually, it was eleven. They nodded at each other and stood up.

Outside, Sherlock casually threw an arm over John's shoulders and said, in his ear, as they walked leisurely, 'Be alert now and do try to act untroubled.'

_As if that was easy, with him whispering in my ear, his arm on my shoulders and with a serial killer possibly stalking us!_ Try as he might, he couldn't remain impervious to his friend's presence and touch. That voice, his breath tickling his ear, the closeness of his body, the warmth of his arm. All this was messing with him. Sherlock remained untroubled, as if they did this every day. Mercifully, he pulled his arm away and walked with his hands in his pockets. They walked for a while, then Sherlock made him turn into a side alley. Where the passage intersected another alley, before John could react, Sherlock spun him around against the brick wall, placed his hands on either side of him at the wall and bent down. John had frozen on the spot, palms against the cold surface, eyes wide. Sherlock got close to his ear and whispered 'stay still, just pretend...'

Then Sherlock smelled John. It was a very unique scent, he had unconsciously noticed this long ago. It had always bothered him when John returned from his dates without showering. Now he understood why. He always prided himself on his command of the English language, but he could not describe John's smell. It was soft, inebriating, definitely not musky, unlike anybody else's. Being this close spiked his senses. His breathing became laboured. He couldn't resist and inhaled deeply.

His lips accidentally lightly brushed on the smooth neck. John felt shivers run through his whole body, and goose pimples rushed in their wake. Sherlock licked his lips, trying unconsciously to taste John's skin in them. Before Sherlock could stop himself, he pulled the shirt away and lightly bit John at the base of the neck. John visibly shuddered and dropped his forehead on his shoulder, exposing his neck, as if asking for more. He did it again, lower and a bit harder. This time John let out a muffled moan. Sherlock slid his hands and lightly touched John's waist as he continued inhaling that heady scent, dragging his nose up against the warm neck. John raised his arms but hesitated before touching his back, his hands remained just hovering above it.

Then a low voice behind them said 'You boys should get a room.'


	15. Facing death

**15. Facing death**.

Sherlock pulled away and paused, then slowly turned to face the voice, making sure he was shielding John.

The proprietor of Quinlan's Books was pointing a gun at them.

'Mr. Quinlan? Wh-What are you doing?' Sherlock said in his character's voice. He chose a nervous and scared tone, showing surprise and fear.

He continued silkily 'Just do as I say and nobody gets hurt.' He gestured with his gun for them to raise their hands. 'I just want to chat with you boys for a while, in a more private place.'

'Oh? About what?' Sherlock continued.

'About the wrong choices in your life, for one thing. But such things should be discussed in private, don't you think?' He started walking closer, circling them. Sherlock also moved, always making sure John was behind him. 'In a place where we can be more comfortable,' he added.

'Are you suggesting a bedroom with the three of us together? A threesome?'

Quinlan looked disgusted. 'Shut up,' he said quietly.

'Or would you rather watch? We can put on a great show for you, you know. Anything you want, please, Mr. Quinlan, just let us go!'

'I said shut up!'

'You must find us attractive. Why else would you have followed us?'

'To wipe that sick smile off your face.' Then he added with malice, 'And no, I don't find blokes attractive. Especially useless poufs like you. All you do is take space and spoil everything, you sick bastards. Oh, I'll make you regret being so shameless.'

'Wh-What are you going to do to us?'

'Same thing I've done with the others.'

'Others? What do you mean? Do you pick up guys in dark alleys all the time?'

'No. I kill them.'

Sherlock paused as if shocked to hear that. His mouth open and closed nervously before he could say 'Wh-Why?'

'So you stop flaunting your sickness everywhere you go. Nobody wants to see you two rubbing yourselves like that. Disgusting!'

'Please Mr. Quinlan, we'll do anything you want, please, let us go.'

'Quiet. Not a word until we get to our final destination. You'll come quietly or I will make you regret it. Your – boyfriend - will suffer if you try anything. And the same goes to you, boy,' he said looking at John. 'One false move and I'll shoot both of you, right here, right now, understand? Now boys, this way.' He gestured towards the entrance of the alley with his gun.

This was the opportunity John had been looking for. He only had a second. He wished he could push Sherlock out of the way, to safety. But he knew such a sudden move would only alert the killer into pointing the gun back to Sherlock and perhaps fire. So he took a step aside, aimed and fired. Quinlan yelled in shock and pain, clutching his hand. There was the clatter of a gun falling on the ground followed by a shout 'Freeze! Police!' from across the alley. John kept his eyes on Quinlan and, pointing his Browning, said fiercely and quietly 'Don't. Move.'

Sherlock turned around and saw, standing close to them, a young man in jeans, a short-sleeved untucked shirt and trainers, holding a gun with both hands.

It was Williams.

Williams ran, quickly kicked the man's gun away and turned the suspect towards the wall, pulling a pair of handcuffs. John yelled angrily 'Christ, Jason! What took you so long? I told you we'd be leaving at eleven!'

'You told him?' Sherlock asked, surprised. _Jason?_

'Yes, of course I told him. It was madness to offer ourselves up as bait without back up!' John yelled, pointing towards the murderer, ready to fight his friend over this. But Sherlock just turned his head to Williams before his eyes followed. Williams was cautioning Quinlan and handcuffing him.

John went to Williams and continued, irritated, 'I looked for you at the club, where the hell were you?'

Williams looked embarrassed. 'I was upstairs in the administrative office, hidden from the dance floor and the bar. I could see both of you through the one-way window. I started moving when it was close to eleven. But it took me longer than I expected to cross the crowded room. When I finally made it outside, you were nowhere to be seen. I asked the guys outside, some had noticed you and pointed me in the right direction. I ran, just in time to see Quinlan walking into this alley. When I got to the corner I saw him pointing his gun at you. I approached quietly and hid. I heard his threats. I was looking for the right moment to intervene, I couldn't do anything while he was pointing his gun at you. I was hoping to get him once all of you walked past me.' He kept one hand at Quinlan's back, turned his head to John and smiled brightly. 'That was an amazing shot, John!'

Quinlan was furious for being tricked and shouted some abuse at Sherlock and John, but Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. He was annoyed that Williams had praised John before Sherlock could say anything. It _had _ been an amazing shot.

To John's surprise and chagrin, Sherlock retrieved a small hidden camera he had placed in the alley earlier that afternoon. His plan had been to collect the evidence of the abduction attempt. And if possible, get him to admit to the killings on camera. John was mortified at the prospect of seeing all that had happened between them as a court exhibit.

…..

As soon as they had heard Quinlan's voice, Sherlock looked into John's eyes and mouthed 'Gun. Wait. Chance.' Then he slowly turned around to face the killer, making sure he was shielding John's right hand. After the initial shock, John understood and pulled out his pistol. When Quinlan had ordered them to raise their hands, he could tell both of John's hands were up, but he could not see the Browning obscured by Sherlock's body.

John was never formally trained as a sniper, mainly because he went straight into medic training. But he still went through regular training and his aim was very good. He had been looking for the right moment to act. As soon as he saw an opportunity, he aimed at Quinlan's hand. His main goal was to take control of the situation and keep them safe. Despite being relatively close, the difficulty was to have enough time to aim accurately and shoot before Quinlan had time to react. The man's hand hurt from the gun being jerked away by the bullet, but was otherwise unharmed. That was a lucky shot, in his opinion. He had aimed for the hand.

Williams called the Yard to request a transport car for the suspect. Then he called Lestrade, and while he explained what had happened, Sherlock said quietly, his lips curling up with pride 'Great shot, John.' John's eyes met Sherlock's briefly and he gave a quick and tentative smile, accompanied by a nod.


	16. At the Yard

**16. At the Yard**

They met Lestrade at his office to share the case's details before the interrogation could start.

Lestrade had been furious with them for acting on their own and even more so with Williams for not telling him and carrying a gun without a superior's permission. Lestrade said he would've had an entire squad as support, surveillance cameras, microphones on both men, and, incidentally, the bait would've been trained officers, not civilians. John was thankful for not having cameras and microphones on them, given what had happened at the alley. As for Williams, when John had called earlier, he had agreed with Sherlock's logic. They wouldn't have been able to get a warrant, so he had to act on his own, as if he just happened to be at the same nightclub that night. It made John feel better, to have a back up. After his initial outburst, John knew Williams had done the right thing, so he made sure to apologise. He had just overreacted given the tense circumstances. He had not seen Williams at the club and had feared they were on their own. Now he was just relieved that it was over and they were all alive. Despite his anger, Lestrade knew they had been right about the warrant.

'So _how _ did you find him?' asked Lestrade.

Sherlock was his usual commanding self, firing his discoveries at a dizzying speed. 'Well, given the fact that all victims had different interests, lifestyles and were of different age groups, background and socioeconomic status, it was obvious that the key was to find the common denominator between them. There had to be one, aside being gay. I looked at the pictures, their places, their belongings and tried to find anything that was common to all three couples. Eventually I noticed a red label in some old books. The same bookshop. I researched it online. There were some negative reviews from gay customers complaining that this was not a gay-friendly establishment. That seemed very obvious and consistent. Surely the murderer was homophobic, given that the killings were basically executions. No sexual assault, no material gain.'

'I also researched the proprietor and found out he had had an assault charge that had been dropped six months ago. He had apparently punched and thrown one of his customers out of the shop. A gay customer. The charge was dropped after an agreement on a compensation. As soon as I saw Quinlan, it was all clear. His height was consistent with the stride measured on the footprints, he was left handed, as the knife blows attested to. He had a gun under the counter, lived alone – so no one to notice his time away spent killing, middle aged, former strong athlete, recently divorced, having been dumped by his wife due to inadequacies in bed, caused undoubtedly by his steroid abuse -'

'Wait, how did you get all that just by looking at him?' asked Williams.

Sherlock made a disgusted face for having to slow down and explain. To his greater annoyance, John sided with Williams. 'Yes, Sherlock, you never explained it to me either.'

'He constantly seemed to be fingering something under the counter. Given his poorly concealed angry look, it was most likely to be a gun, kept there undoubtedly originally for safety. I'm sure ballistics will confirm that this is the gun used on the first kill. He had his collar sticking up at the back, so there was no one else around to tell him so or to straighten it up for him, hence he must live alone. Yet, you could tell it had not always been like that. His shirt had a button that had clearly been sown back, but not recently. The thread was not the original one, but it was not a recent repair. Mind you, this was an Oxford shirt and the button was on the collar. A bit difficult for him to repair it, due to the size of the button in comparison to the size of his hands. His ring finger did not have a tan line, but still showed the indentation of years of wearing a wedding band, and having gained weight in the process. So the divorce had been recent enough that the indentation was still there, but long enough ago that any tan lines had already disappeared. Also, there was a group picture taped to the wall next to the till. The picture was old, slightly faded, but the tape was new. In it, he was standing at the edge, and the picture had clearly been trimmed, the ratio was off. Someone had been cut off from the group. You could see the edge of a woman's arm and a print dress next to him. Therefore, the resentment of being dumped by his wife. On a side note, I bet the knife used on your friends was the tool used to cut his ex-wife out of the picture. A very sharp blade, sharper than needed just to trim a piece of paper. Not done with scissors, too straight of a cut. I'm sure a search through his shop and house will turn up the weapon used.'

Williams swallowed.

'Also, look at him. The picture showed a younger version of him, very muscular, and so were the other men in the picture. A former bodybuilder. Clearly, the result of steroid use. Nobody bulks up like that naturally. But steroids, when abused, also present side effects. To name a few: hair loss, which he covers up by shaving his head. You can see the shadow of the remaining hair, not much left. Another side effect: Gynecomastia, or rather, the development of breast tissue in men. Notice his choice of shirt, a denim one. The thicker material is an attempt to hide it. Also, rage and anger can be heightened with the drug. But the most telling effect: reduced sexual function. Hence, a reason for the divorce.'

John had to contain himself from blurting 'Brilliant!', out of respect for Williams' grief. Sherlock heard the unspoken word and the corners of his mouth twitched a bit, pleased.

'In contrast, gay customers would come into the shop, being happy and open about their relationships when his own marriage had failed due to his sexual inadequacies. You also will find out, if checking his books, that his business seem to be failing. The bookshop has seen better days. No doubt the negative reviews online and word of mouth have a lot to do with it. He knows this and blames the gay community for it. After the threat of lawsuit and the divorce, fuelled by his rage, he decided to take action.'

'The first victims – Paul Davidson and James Santori, you recall, were shot at close range in their bed. A pure execution, no time spent talking to the victims. The most likely scenario would be that they paid for their purchase with a card, so he researched their names in an address book, broke in while they were away, then waited until they were asleep to shoot them.

'Rage released, vengeance, satisfaction. He realized he could and _wanted _ to do it again. But he's not stupid, he knew he needed to stay under the radar. Knowing that ballistics would always trace his crimes to the same gun, he became more creative, changing the manner of killing for each one. In each case, the method of killing was premeditated. The choice of victims was purely chance, depending more on opportunity and timing. Being that the shop closed on Sundays, Saturdays were more convenient for him. He'd pick his victims and go after them once he closed the bookshop.'

'The exception were Sidney Taylor and Vincent Fergusen, his second pair of victims. Being so young and new in their relationship, they had been much less restrained in public, as I confirmed with their parents. This must have infuriated Quinlan so much that he decided to close earlier to not let them escape. This was the most impulsive of his kills. They died much earlier than the other victims.'

'I imagine he overheard your friends, Carl and Jack mentioning their evening plans that day.' Sherlock pulled his phone and started typing. 'It's obvious that in choosing a knife the job would be very bloody. So he had to cover himself from head to toe to catch the splattering. But it had to be something that was easy to carry, change into and dispose of. The strange sole pattern was not a shoe after all.' Sherlock showed his phone around. There was a picture of a pair of socks with a different coloured material on the soles. 'This is one of the patterns found in socks that people wear at home during Winter instead of being barefoot, to provide more traction. They're easy to carry inside a pocket, can stretch over the shoes, then taken off as soon as the job is done. On his body, he might've worn a plastic rain poncho that tourists buy. Whatever he used, it was easily discarded.'

Lestrade sent SOCO teams to search the suspect's shop and flat. Then planned with Williams to use that assault charge, the divorce, the 'reduced sexual function' in the interrogation to see if the man would react, and if so, needle him about it. Lestrade and Williams took turns talking to him, while John and Sherlock watched on the other side of the glass. Quinlan had a solicitor appointed to him, who told him to remain silent. They reminded him that he had already said compromising things in the video that Sherlock had taken in the alley. The solicitor objected to the legality of such video.

After an hour of this, with Sherlock giving them advice here and there on how to needle him, Quinlan became agitated and could no longer contain his anger, despite his solicitor's protests.

'Most serial killers want the world to know what they did,' said Sherlock quietly, a slight smile in his lips.

Quinlan had been disgusted and furious. In the past few years he started having more and more gay customers coming into his shop, as the neighbourhood started being 'taken over by gays'. Shops, bars, houses, flats, everywhere. Recently, they had been more and more 'in-your-face', displaying their relationships for all the world to see, unashamed of hugging, kissing and holding hands in public. Something in him snapped, and he decided to eliminate such offensive behaviour. Whenever a couple misbehaved in his shop like that, he targeted them.

The first couple had been quite publicly amorous, that's what incensed him and gave him ideas. They had talked about the dinner party they'd be attending that night. Quinlan tracked their address using their names on the credit card and the phone book, just as Sherlock had said. All he had to do was break in while they were out and wait. He shot them while they slept. That had, in his mind, righted all wrongs, brought back his own sense of power and command, gave him a high that had been lacking in his life. He knew he had found a new sense of purpose. He would do this again.

The second pair of victims was so infuriating to him that he locked the shop's front door, closing earlier and pointing the gun at them, then and there. They were, according to him, practically eating each other's face in front of him. He took them straight to the warehouse, in the boot of his car. Careful in not binding their hands, he made each boy stand on a crate and tie each other's noose. Then he kicked the crates.

With the third couple, as well with Sherlock and John, he didn't have to work hard. They gave him their itinerary on a plate, talking about it at his shop. All he had to do was go to the appropriate place after he closed and wait until the announced time. One of the men in the third couple kept placing his arm over the shoulders of his partner, now and then planting a kiss on the other's cheeks. Sherlock and John gained their status of next pair of victims because of Sherlock's lack of decency, the way treated John, and especially with his comment on Michelangelo's David.

Behind the glass, Lestrade turned to John at this, raising an eyebrow. John merely said 'Don't ask,' turning red at the ears as he stared straight ahead.

This last time Quinlan had his car, in case they took a taxi, but when Sherlock and John walked, he just followed. He had intended to abduct them at gunpoint, throw them in the boot of his car and take them to an abandoned house. He was going to make it look like they were junkies who had overdosed. That sent chills down John's spine. It was so close to something that Sherlock would've done that everybody would believe. Then, everybody would also believe they had been a couple all along. It made him sick.

...

Author's note: Sherlock's deductions are hard to write too. I hope I did him justice. Thanks for reading!


	17. Aftermath

**17. Aftermath**

By the time they finally got back to Baker Street it was breakfast time, but neither were hungry. John was exhausted, drained from being tense and extra alert for the past twenty or so hours. Feeling the crash of the post adrenaline rush, he threw himself on the sofa and fell asleep immediately, lying on his stomach, face turned towards the back rest. Sherlock smiled fondly at his friend and after some thought, removed his shoes. The gun was left at the Yard as evidence. Sherlock made sure he asked Mycroft for his people to remove John's bullet from the wall as soon as they had arrested Quinlan. He'd rather owe his brother a favour than risk John's bullet being traced to the cabbie's death. Williams had forgotten to ask for a SOCO unit to the alley, having to deal with Quinlan and an irate Lestrade on the phone at the time. Being that they'd be busy at Quinlan's flat and bookshop for a while, it gave them time to get rid of that evidence.

With the arrest, there had been no time to think about all that had happened. Now Sherlock could sit down and freely analyse it, watching his friend sleep.

John had looked dashing for their date. Their date! This was the closest that he'd ever come to it. John had been tense in the taxi and at the restaurant, even his posture and walk shifted slightly, bringing his military stiffness back. He was on guard the whole time. But as he told Sherlock about his army days, had relaxed a bit. It was almost like a real date. He had checked online and the bookshop closed at nine on Saturdays, so chances were he'd try to attack after the nightclub only. Yet, Sherlock too remained on guard in case Quinlan showed up before that. It was conceivable that, being the store owner, he could choose to close earlier. Quinlan had admitted doing that with the teen couple.

The dinner had been pleasant for most part. Under the pretence of playing his role, Sherlock had allowed himself to openly look at John and commit to memory every movement, look, smile. Occasionally John would forget what awaited them that evening and permit himself a short laugh at a story that either one was telling. But it was always short lived. He'd remember Quinlan and the smile would disappear.

At the nightclub, he thought amused, _John is so accustomed to his role on dates that he got us drinks. _ _Ah, John. Always the Alpha male, in a more dominant role, used to get what he wants._ Then thoughts of how he had pushed Ella back on the sofa flashed in his mind. He shook them away. He had discreetly observed John, tense and nervous, always scanning the nightclub. Sherlock was pretty sure Quinlan wouldn't try to come in, yet he also scanned the room, just in case.

John looked attractive in the dim amber light of the bar. The frown and his steely eyes indicated the soldier had resurfaced. That hint of danger, power and fierceness emanating from him had a pull on Sherlock. That side of John appeared only sporadically, his face giving nothing away, a puzzle to be unraveled. It was no surprise that, to him, this side of John was thrilling, alluring and... arousing.

He had been interrupted earlier in the day, when John had knocked at his bedroom door. So he started to feel aroused again at the nightclub, making it more and more difficult to concentrate. That's why he had decided to go dancing. He didn't mind the other guys rubbing against him, he hoped it would help relieve his sexual tension.

On the dance floor, when the young man dancing behind him made a very physical pass, he had been tempted to accompany him to the restroom, just to free his mind from his body. But John was there, and would've probably been alarmed to see Sherlock walking away with a stranger. He would've followed them, stopping any attempt of release. It wouldn't feel right anyway, John would've been furious and it would've been an embarrassment. What would John think of his failure in controlling his own body? Not to mention the awkward questions that would surely follow. So he pointed at him as an excuse instead. Much simpler and easier. Albeit frustrating.

To his surprise, John had reacted as if he had been the jealous boyfriend, dragging him possessively by the arm, claiming him as his. It pleased him.

Under the legitimate excuse of warning John as they left the club, he threw an arm over his shoulders and got close to him. The temptation to kiss him on the cheek had been strong. He couldn't help but linger his arm over his shoulders. He had to stop doing this and concentrate. _Are there footsteps behind us? Is Quinlan lurking around? Well, there's one way to find out. I need to stay focused so John doesn't get injured. Concentrate!_

He had kept his attention behind and all around them. He had planned to go into that alley earlier, when checking the maps and street views online. Quinlan would certainly notice the lack of CCTV in that area and wouldn't be able to resist the provocation of two men kissing in a semi-public area. He thought he had been prepared by setting up the hidden camera earlier in the day. Sherlock had planned to just pretend to be snogging and attract the killer, then get him to talk for the camera. He hadn't intended to actually do anything, but just hover above John and wait. He wasn't prepared for his own weakness in being so close to him.

When he smelled John... he almost lost all his self control. All he wanted to do was press his body against John's, kiss him and make him shudder, just like Ella had done. He had been so close to doing all that. Then Quinlan had taken the bait. Sherlock tried getting him to talk and in the end was able to get an admission on video. Unfortunately it wasn't more explicit or specific. But no matter, they did get a confession at the Yard.

He hadn't expected Williams to be there as a back up. This was the second time he had seen John trust someone else so quickly. _'That was an amazing shot, John,' he had said admiringly. Still flirting. _It bothered him that they had planned it together and had kept him in the dark, and that John now called him Jason... _ When had they started on first name basis?_

But Williams had been right. Sherlock was proud of John, again. Always the soldier, prepared, thinking ahead, with great self-control under distress and facing danger. Even though they had been ten feet away from Quinlan, it was still a very impressive good shot. Especially considering that John didn't have much time to aim properly. Anyone else would've just shot Quinlan. Very much like John to disarm without harming the suspect.

Then his mind returned to John's shudder and moan of pleasure, the weight of his forehead leaning against his shoulder, as if asking for more... How it felt to touch his waist, firm, warm. Had he pressed his body against John's like he had wanted to, John would've known. But then he did respond with pleasure... He let his eyes glide over John's body sleeping on the sofa. He was no different than Williams. He too, would like to have John out of his clothes. His hand moved on its own accord. With one last look, he got up and went to his room.

In a very short time he was done. He drifted off to a deep sleep.

...

John woke up by early afternoon, feeling terrible. He had a headache, was nauseated, thirsty, and his neck was stiff from sleeping in an odd position. He got up and drank two glasses of water, the second one with some aspirin. He went to the bathroom to shower. Listening in, he was surprised to find Sherlock sleeping, and in his bedroom, nonetheless. He could hear his deep breathing on the other side of the glass door. _Of course, post case effects. Plus I took the sofa._ He stood under the hot water for a long time. It all came back to him. The fear, the shame, the arousal, the shooting.

That moment in the deserted and dark alley.

He was surprised by Sherlock's decisive and commanding actions, spinning him against the wall. The deep voice in his ear, the lips brushing on his neck, his deep breathing tickling his skin. Just thinking of this still sent a rush of heat throughout his body at lightening speed. Then that bite. He couldn't help it, he just wanted more. Before he knew it, he was resting against Sherlock's shoulder, feeling the heat of his body so close to him, inhaling his scent, mixed in with a bit of sweat from dancing earlier. _And his hands on my waist..._ The touch was gentle and delicate, but he felt as if he were on fire. It had aroused him and he had almost embraced Sherlock. One more second, he would've pulled him down and kissed him passionately.

Again, another first: not only he felt he could have kissed him, but he had been aroused._ I don't know how far I would go, but I really wanted to kiss him, feel his body against mine. I wanted to touch him._ With shame, he realized he liked when Sherlock grabbed him, making him turn, stop, face him, whatever it was. He enjoyed when his friend was in control.

_He has total control over me._

Then he remembered bitterly how it all had disappeared in one second. Had Sherlock been, in the end, just playing his role? He was, after all, a great actor when circumstances called for it. He had shown it in the past, he could even cry on demand. Big fat tears that he didn't feel and look convincing while doing it. He also remembered Sherlock dancing between those handsome guys. Didn't even bother him. He was truly in character the whole evening, from the restaurant to the alley.

_It bothered me. I envied how they were pressing against his body, rubbing themselves on him, feeling him up. I was jealous. And when we left the club, to anyone looking (Quinlan, for one), with his arm on my shoulders, it must have looked like he was just saying sweet things in my ears, but in reality he was warning me._

_I fell for it! Now he'll definitely know. How am I going to face him when he wakes up?_

Plus, he had a camera trained on them! Thankfully, the video cut what they were doing in the alley. One could see Sherlock's back, but John and what they did were off camera. The important thing was that the video captured Quinlan threatening them and admitting to killing others. Watching the video at the Yard was even more terrifying. It made it much more clear how precarious their situation had been. At such close range, Quinlan couldn't possibly miss it. They could've easily been the fourth couple in his killings. The only consolation would be that Jason would've witnessed it and arrested him _in flagrante_.

He couldn't just sit there. He got dressed and went out.


	18. Face to face

Note: Originally there were 19 chapters, but I combined 2 short ones so this is the conclusion. I hope you enjoyed.

**18. Face to face**

John hopped onto a double-decker and just sat there with no real destination. He had no one to talk to. Nowhere to go. He could call Ella, but somehow, she was an outsider to all this. Plus, the conflict of choosing Sherlock over her... He liked her very much, but now he could clearly see he wasn't in love with her.

But that was all. Sherlock was still Sherlock. Unattached, 'married to his work', in his own words when they had first met. All his doings in the previous day only served a purpose, just like any other experiment, for a case.

After a while lost in thoughts, something occurred to him. He pulled out his phone.

...

Sherlock woke up around mid-afternoon and immediately showered to erase traces of what he had done earlier. But when he came out of his room he realised John was gone. That caused him to worry. Was he upset? Offended by the bites? Offended by the reaction he had caused? Had John merely reacted due to pent up sexual frustration? A reminder of what Ella could do?

_How long had he been gone? Could he be with Ella? To re-assert his masculinity?_

Images of them together came back to him. John pushing her down, his imagination showing him on top of her, hands gliding down her body... his hands pushing Sherlock firmly away at the bookshop. _A man used to get what he wants... and he pushed me away. _ He shook himself. _How could I have been so careless? Biting him! Now he might leave._ He was pacing.

He pulled out two nicotine patches and stuck them to his arm. Ah, he really craved a real smoke now! The longer the hours, the worse he felt. He wasn't sure how long this lasted, all his pacing and worrying. But some time had passed, the sun was now setting. He added another patch. Next thing he knew, it was dark outside and the lights were on, even though he couldn't remember having actually turned them on. It wasn't until much later that he heard the front door open downstairs. He looked at the clock and it was past 9.

Quickly, he grabbed his violin and sat down on his chair, setting it on his lap. It gave him something to do with his hands. He was nervous.

John swallowed and started climbing the stairs. The lights were on and he heard small sounds. _So he's home._ He took a deep breath.

When he walked in, Sherlock was a bit disheveled, as if he had rubbed his hair a lot. He always did this when frustrated. He was wearing his usual at-home clothes, sitting on his chair, violin on his lap. He looked... odd. More like a kid that had been caught doing something wrong. That was unexpected. What he had expected was a confrontation about John's response to his fake caresses. He expected him to be affronted for having imagined that Sherlock would've done all that if it wasn't for a case. But that look... He frowned and immediately looked around the room and peeked towards the kitchen. _Has he done something to the flat while I was gone? Has he done drugs again?_

'What?'

Sherlock recoiled slightly and asked defensively, 'Where have you been?'

John was taken aback. 'I... I called Jason and we met for coffee.'

_Jason..._ _Williams? Why Williams?_ He seemed confused, so John exhaled deeply and sat down.

'I needed to talk to _some_one. Jason was there. He's been part of the case.'

'You can always talk to me. _I_ was there.'

'Not this time... I needed some advice.'

'About?'

'Relationships.'

'Ah. I see.' _Something I cannot give._

'I called him because-' He stood up and walked away, facing the window, hands on his waist. He couldn't stand those eyes, he couldn't look at him while saying what he had to say. 'His advice was for me to come clean. I can't live a lie and remain forever in fear.' He looked down, trying to steel himself. 'In these past few weeks, after I had started dating Ella, I realized I had feelings for someone else. It came as a shock to me. I had no idea... It has been very hard for me to accept this and come to terms with it.'

_Williams?!_ Sherlock's heart sank.

'I had never been attracted to men before...'

_Williams! So young, handsome, flirty and willing. In a very short time John had trusted him completely and called him as a back-up. They 'met for coffee', just like with Ella._ In a flash he imagined both of them together and what might've occurred in the past several hours.

'... until I met you.'

Sherlock was in shock. _Me?!_

'It wasn't until I had my big date with Ella that I realized I'm... in love with you.' The last words came out as barely a whisper. John's voice trembled with emotion as he continued, 'Then this case... You were only playing a role, but I fell for it. For very brief moments I reacted and responded to your... touches. I can't deny my feelings, now that you've seen my reactions. I have to be honest with you... and with myself.'

He swallowed and bent his head down. 'I care deeply about our friendship. It means so much to me! More than I can ever tell you. I know how you feel about relationships, how you don't do feelings. I accept and respect that. All I ask is that you let me continue to be your friend.'

Sherlock was speechless. Of all things, that was the last thing he had expected. It took him a moment to process these words. _He's... in love... with me? He's in love... with me! Me!_ His mouth was still open when John couldn't stand anymore and turned around, hands still on his waist, looking for a response. His face showed anguish and pain.

Sherlock blinked and stood up slowly, setting his violin down, then walking towards John. He was at at a loss for words, all this sentiment was new to him. He took a few steps forward and, slowing down as his own breathing quickened, stood in front of him. Words seemed inadequate to express what he felt. In the past, he had relied on his violin to convey something as foreign and incomprehensible as _emotions_. He could hardly do that this time, John was waiting. Panic started pooling in his stomach, as nothing coherent formed in his brain. What was the proper etiquette and response in a situation such as this? This went far beyond his realm of knowledge and comfort zone.

John was apprehensive, Sherlock's face still showed surprise and shock, his mouth still hanging open.

Sherlock looked into the dark blue eyes that stared back at him and in a rush all that he had been bottling up for the past several weeks broke through the shield he had spent a lifetime building. He realized, for the first time in his life that, with John, such armour was unnecessary. This 'weakness' was not to be feared or repelled anymore. In fact, this _emotion _he felt made him feel invincible, soaring above everything, and _happy_ - more so than he had ever imagined possible. For the first time, he trusted his transport to offer an appropriate reply. He bent his head down, paused, and looking into John's eyes, smiled. He closed his eyes and, while pressing against his body for a full embrace, kissed him. And this was everything.

_The Beginning._


End file.
